just blue

godtiss: inspector-radio: And my heart ached ;;;; He manages to convince himself that it’s the right thing to do. Three years to the day since the death of London’s greatest mind, since the death of the world’s only consulting detective, since the death of the great Sherlock Holmes. Three years to the day since the death of John Watson’s best friend, and the pain of it has not been dulled by a single passing moment. He is tired. So, so tired. He looks out over the rooftops, out over London. Below him, the world moves on, takes no notice the small figure standing on the ledge of Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital. Three years, to the day. It’s oddly poetic, if he were inclined to such sentiments. He tells himself that he’s doing what’s best – he hasn’t been the same since Sherlock died, hasn’t laughed and hardly ever smiles. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson tried, at first. He’d invite John out for a pint, she’d bring him tea in the mornings. Nothing helped. Eventually they got the message. John moved out of Baker Street two months later. Found himself a small flat he was able to afford on his army pension and whatever money he managed to make at the surgery, on the days he decided to show up. Sarah was understanding. She put up with him longer than he could have asked for. Now he’s jobless. Nearly homeless. Living off of tea and crap telly to numb his mind. No one to miss him because he’s pushed everyone away and the only person who really mattered, John buried three years before. He tells himself it’s the right thing to do. Sherlock wouldn’t have wanted him to, but Sherlock’s not there to tell him so. That’s the problem. On the street below, no one takes notice of the man on the roof who spreads his arms wide, feeling the breeze telling of distant rain whisper against his exposed skin. He looks down – it doesn’t seem so far, I wonder if this is what he felt like, maybe I can ask him soon – takes a deep breath. John Watson closes his eyes. Leans forward. Feels himself begin to fall- -is violently snatched from behind, strong arms curling around his chest, yanking him back. His savior doesn’t let go when they tumble backwards, landing hard on the building below them. John breathes deeply, evenly through his nose, does not open his eyes. The feel of those arms around his chest is oddly comforting, the scratch of wool on his cheek distracting, the scent of tea and unidentifiable chemicals familiar… John opens his eyes, sees nothing but the sky thinly veiled by clouds. The arms around him remove themselves. His savior shifts. Suddenly the sky is replaced by two pale eyes, half-lidded and grieving. “You were going to jump after me,” Sherlock says. It’s the first time John can remember hearing the great detective say something so obvious.

godtiss:

inspector-radio:

And my heart ached ;;;;

He manages to convince himself that it’s the right thing to do.

Three years to the day since the death of London’s greatest mind, since the death of the world’s only consulting detective, since the death of the great Sherlock Holmes.

Three years to the day since the death of John Watson’s best friend, and the pain of it has not been dulled by a single passing moment. He is tired. So, so tired.

He looks out over the rooftops, out over London. Below him, the world moves on, takes no notice the small figure standing on the ledge of Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital.

Three years, to the day. It’s oddly poetic, if he were inclined to such sentiments. He tells himself that he’s doing what’s best – he hasn’t been the same since Sherlock died, hasn’t laughed and hardly ever smiles. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson tried, at first. He’d invite John out for a pint, she’d bring him tea in the mornings.

Nothing helped. Eventually they got the message.

John moved out of Baker Street two months later. Found himself a small flat he was able to afford on his army pension and whatever money he managed to make at the surgery, on the days he decided to show up.

Sarah was understanding. She put up with him longer than he could have asked for.

Now he’s jobless. Nearly homeless. Living off of tea and crap telly to numb his mind. No one to miss him because he’s pushed everyone away and the only person who really mattered, John buried three years before.

He tells himself it’s the right thing to do. Sherlock wouldn’t have wanted him to, but Sherlock’s not there to tell him so. That’s the problem.

On the street below, no one takes notice of the man on the roof who spreads his arms wide, feeling the breeze telling of distant rain whisper against his exposed skin. He looks down – it doesn’t seem so far, I wonder if this is what he felt like, maybe I can ask him soon – takes a deep breath.

John Watson closes his eyes. Leans forward. Feels himself begin to fall-

-is violently snatched from behind, strong arms curling around his chest, yanking him back.

His savior doesn’t let go when they tumble backwards, landing hard on the building below them. John breathes deeply, evenly through his nose, does not open his eyes. The feel of those arms around his chest is oddly comforting, the scratch of wool on his cheek distracting, the scent of tea and unidentifiable chemicals familiar…

John opens his eyes, sees nothing but the sky thinly veiled by clouds. The arms around him remove themselves. His savior shifts.

Suddenly the sky is replaced by two pale eyes, half-lidded and grieving.

“You were going to jump after me,” Sherlock says. It’s the first time John can remember hearing the great detective say something so obvious.

(Source: oooyooo, via hynora)

1 month ago

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