Unbelieving (A Johnlock Fanfiction)

Unveil

Heh. Finally.

Let's see how this gOeS omg I'm so nervous like not even kidding guys
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Chapter 12:

The door creaked open, just a bit, as he knocked for the fourth time.

It smelt like home inside. It smelt like a long time.

But it smelt vile.

He had been gone for too long to notice the difference so his mind just accepted it.

The sweet, warm smell of home entered his nostrils and his head, he wanted to shrivel up and lie on the floor, crying like a child.

He could explode into a thousand pieces with the sheer pressure of the tears he was holding back.

Sentiment.

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Even through everything, every moment he spent in looking around and gathering himself, piecing himself together and with his story that he had left here, incomplete, all he could think of was John. His light. He was golden, and he was all he had wished for, for all the time he spent away.

Thunder crackled in the sky as he stepped in the darkness of the flat, a drastic contrast to the light outside. He scrambled in and shut the door as he felt the sting of raindrops on his cheeks. His ears were numb with the cold and noise outside, and the buzzing in his ears intensified as he stepped into the silence of the building.

This silence was cold.

He had computed and memorised and enacted all the possibilities in his mind. He wanted to be prepared for everything; he wanted to see John smile after laying eyes on him; he wanted to bathe in the light of  his eyes that shined with the sunshine-yellow smile that played on his lips.

But here, it smelt like death and memories.

He moved forward and slithered upstairs. The door was ajar. As his muscles reprised their lost memory of opening the door of the flat he once called his own, the only sound that struck his ears apart from the creaking was the tap in the bathroom. He knew John was was very particular about things like that, it was very unlikely that he would overlook something like that.

To the brightest minds, the universe is extensive, the possibilities and inequalities all balanced and explained, the infinite and the zero, all spread across their line of sight like an experiment, waiting to be examined, dismantled, explained and undone. Their minds are like a child running behind a kite, that floats and floats and never reaches the ground, the child's mind constantly flying up there alongside the kite. Endearing.

One day, the child stops noticing the grass. He has the clouds, instead. He stops looking down, stops looking around, he's flying with the kite, swaying with the wind, higher and higher because he has seen the infinite. But one day, gravity is stronger and the kite finally lands.

Quietly.

And everything changes so much, that it becomes incomprehensible. The child then revels only in the mysteries of the sky, the unfurling infinite in front of him, the grass, the water, the tangible becomes unimportant and like puzzle pieces, all with different edges,  unsettling and unfitting, but he has to live among them, so he simplifies every colour, every complexity, every shade and gradient, and separates them.

The sky remains his own, and he owns an illusion on the ground.

So Sherlock didn't understand when he didn't see John, he didn't understand the possibility of the worst, and even when he did, it was in a map of all the defined possibilities, all with their colours lost.