Unbelieving (A Johnlock Fanfiction)

Ink

Chapter 14:

Sherlock

There was silence in the flat. An odd silence. A silence that was full of longing, like a mournful vibrato of a violin. It was raining and the silence still remained stagnant, unmoved. All they could think about was each other but the floodgates remained shut. Longing replaced anticipation and vain resentment, longing and the floodgates remained yet shut. The river dried out behind them.

Mrs. Hudson had been at her sister's since John's episode, and Sherlock didn't know when she was coming back. He didn't think she was. She had been there. She had always been there; she had been the eye of all the storms they stirred up there, and now she wasn't even there to see him alive. How much more was he going to lose? The prospect of meeting John was the only thing, he thought, would keep him going and John wasn't even talking.

John had been in his room for the majority of the day, and Sherlock was being kept company by the whispering curtains in front of him. They had seen John for the time Sherlock was away. He felt undeserving of even setting foot there. He had been weighed down by the notes in his head of the things he wanted to say to John. He was drowning in his forlorn mind. He just wanted to open John up; he just needed him to see.

~

"John?" He said brokenly as he laid eyes on him for the first time in twenty-two hours. He opened the door a little further and entered the room.

"Sherlock" John stated, his voice raspy and eyes bloodshot. Sherlock was truly helpless.

"John I-"

"Don't"

"What?"

"Don't, Mary. Please. I know it's you. I know you.. I know. Please get out. "

"John what are-"

"Mary, I said go out."

"John I.." He sighed. He couldn't remember the last time he was so desperate. "I'm Sherlock." He said, his voice choked up with tears. John laughed.

"It won't work anymore." John laughed.

He laughed. It echoed in Sherlock's skull, it went down his spine, resonating through every fibre in Sherlock's body. His laughter was luminous. Like a ball of resounding energy in the middle of a black void. That inescapable expanse of black didn't seem inescapable afterall.

Golden.

But it was dry. John laughed; not golden. He just looked

grey.

Sherlock entered the room entirely, his feet shuffling forward and his eyes never leaving John. They were hinged.

"I don't know what you're talking about" Sherlock said monotonously, not bothering thinking about the words he spoke. All he wanted was to shout and sieze John in his arms and never let go.

Instead, he walked over to the other side of the bed where John was sitting still. Sherlock didn't care about how he looked. He couldn't care less about how tired he was. All he wanted were words. John's words had always meant something to Sherlock. They kept him inside the lines, pulled him back. He loved John's words. He loved them because they were never meaningless or in vain. They were sturdy, like a rock, where Sherlock was the sea, flattering his incessant, salty waves carelessly over the earth, over John. He bore everything and only uttered honey. Sherlock

loved

John's words.

~

When he reached the bedside, Sherlock knelt down beside the bed, his hands shaking.