Fandom Oneshots [Mainly Marvel, Sherlock, and Good Omens, and House MD]

BBC Sherlock: (Johnlock) "I Had No One"

"The hell?" John muttered as he spun around. His eyes darted to the figure of Sherlock craning his own head at the world before them. It definitely wasn't a room. It reminded John of a galaxy. As described by his own mind, John thought of it as "a galaxy placed in a paint can and poured crystal ball's insides, filling it up like a cup of frothy liquid in a goblet."

Sherlock was silent. He narrowed his eyes and examined the room. When John asked, "Do you know what it is?" Sherlock didn't respond; he stood where his lifted head scanned for something to go off of. A hard and firm, "Sherlock!" Came from John's lips.

Sherlock ignored him for just a few more seconds, "Not a room," He murmured vaguely. He waved his hands around.

"You alright, no bones are broken?" He heard Sherlock finally ask, his voice shifting into a playful joke. He turned to the consulting detective, believing it was weird for him to suddenly show concern after the snippets of the conversation John threw with no response from him. As well as the joking tone that he heard only once in his life. The voice was far away as if a faint whisper that floated between his strands of blonde hair.

Sherlock's head shot to the left and John followed like a dog watching a squirrel's path. A slight muffle from no one's mouth buzzed in the air. Sherlock's look did not change but John's did. His eyebrows furrowed as his eyes narrowed just that small bit.

"That wasn't me," Sherlock turned his head to John. John narrowed his eyes more, this time, on purpose.

"Then who the hell as it?" John was about to ask.

A third voice rang out from a distant land, one that coughed out, "Ta, I'm fine, give me a second."

John froze. "That... wasn't me," He said, letting his tongue run across each letter and mouth push syllables from his throat like a slow sliding train. Sherlock finally let his expression melt into another one, rebuilt from wax. Carved and sculpted with the thinnest scalpel.

"You were telling me something?" His distant voice asked with a delicate touch to the lips, as if he only allowed himself to talk when he pulled his hand away.

Sherlock paused, "We never had this conversation..." He shook his head all the while. "Not a recording," He added with a click of his tongue.

"Nothing important, John," The distance voice of Sherlock responded.

A long pause gave way to a small sign from the recording-like version of John. This time, John could feel something his own voice never had. A weary breath at every word's tail, one that his mother had after he had told her he was joining the army.

"No," The voice pronounced sternly. John nearly toppled over on how much they sounded like his own father. "Sherlock, you clearly had something to say, I need to hear it." Sherlock was silent, and not just one.

"Is it that necessary? Are you going to collapse right this second?" Sherlock's quiet voice was the only sound. "Because you always say that when I try to talk about... us."

Another sea-deep pause rippled through the air. "Sherlock?" The voice was nearly quivering. "What do you mean about—"

"I wanted to apologize," The voice was ripped out of Sherlock's throat.

"...Us?" Silence. "Apologize?"

"Yes, think of this as an apology." John finally stopped staring at the galaxies before him. He watched Sherlock pull one mask away and it pulled away easily, just like a curtain before a play. When John placed his fingers on the surface, it was solid, but then the texture morphed into silk. The edges fluttered away and the silk blew to the side softly.