John’s making his way down a narrow aisle of Tesco’s. He’s come here for the shopping, but his mind keeps wandering. He’s stuck on the times he used to have, and the little memories he tries to push away. They’re creeping in through the concrete walls he’s put up. He’s living, though not alive. Days like these are when he has to check his pulse, to verify his body's actually functioning.
He’s drifting on an endless lazy river, where there’s tranquility and safety, but he wants off. He’s never been able to live his life in serenity, and certainly not after he experienced the crashing waves and tempestuous storms of Sherlock Holmes.
He sighs, shaking his head at the persisting thoughts. There’s no point in mulling over something already gone.
It’s then when he thinks he sees a flash of curly hair and a dark swirling coat.
“Sherlock!”
The words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them, and he’s rushing towards the baked beans with a flutter in his stomach.
There’s no Sherlock.
There’s only an elderly woman who gives him a sympathetic smile, as though he was a child who had lost his mother.
John presses his lips together, his cheeks heating at his delusion. He should’ve known. Even if it had been Sherlock, he wouldn’t have been so careless and let John catch him alive.
Sherlock’s dead, he’s known that for ages. When would he finally learn to accept it?
John’s lost all interest in doing the shopping by now, but he scans the aisle one more time for any sign of Sherlock. There’s a bit of purple stuck between two cans of Sherlock’s favorite baked beans and he yanks it out. It’s an extremely odd coincidence.
His eyes roam over the thorns, the soft petals, the brilliant lavender of it. He doesn’t think twice when he clutches it close to him and exits.
The rose has something that reminds him of Sherlock. Maybe it’s the accident of finding something so precious. Maybe because it's intricate and protected towards the center, like Sherlock and his emotions were. Or maybe it was the way that the thorns coated the stems, protecting their true beauty and sensitivity above.
“A genius like you, I thought you’d find a way out of suicide. Those rumors could’ve been proven wrong. We could’ve sorted it out together.”
John laughs softly to himself as he fits it in a small vase. He’s becoming a sentimental old man, turning roses into Sherlock Holmes. When it’s adjusted straight and correctly, he nods, reclining into the back of the sofa.
The single rose fills the room with a heady, rich scent that would make most people sneeze.
Nevertheless, John thinks its the best air he’s breathed in while.
In fact, it almost smells like Sherlock. Thank you so much for your sweet comments, they keep me writing! :) I hope you enjoy this next installment.
Re: Fill: 2/? Johnlock, The Language of Roses
He’s drifting on an endless lazy river, where there’s tranquility and safety, but he wants off. He’s never been able to live his life in serenity, and certainly not after he experienced the crashing waves and tempestuous storms of Sherlock Holmes.
He sighs, shaking his head at the persisting thoughts. There’s no point in mulling over something already gone.
It’s then when he thinks he sees a flash of curly hair and a dark swirling coat.
“Sherlock!”
The words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them, and he’s rushing towards the baked beans with a flutter in his stomach.
There’s no Sherlock.
There’s only an elderly woman who gives him a sympathetic smile, as though he was a child who had lost his mother.
John presses his lips together, his cheeks heating at his delusion. He should’ve known. Even if it had been Sherlock, he wouldn’t have been so careless and let John catch him alive.
Sherlock’s dead, he’s known that for ages. When would he finally learn to accept it?
John’s lost all interest in doing the shopping by now, but he scans the aisle one more time for any sign of Sherlock. There’s a bit of purple stuck between two cans of Sherlock’s favorite baked beans and he yanks it out. It’s an extremely odd coincidence.
His eyes roam over the thorns, the soft petals, the brilliant lavender of it. He doesn’t think twice when he clutches it close to him and exits.
The rose has something that reminds him of Sherlock. Maybe it’s the accident of finding something so precious. Maybe because it's intricate and protected towards the center, like Sherlock and his emotions were. Or maybe it was the way that the thorns coated the stems, protecting their true beauty and sensitivity above.
“A genius like you, I thought you’d find a way out of suicide. Those rumors could’ve been proven wrong. We could’ve sorted it out together.”
John laughs softly to himself as he fits it in a small vase. He’s becoming a sentimental old man, turning roses into Sherlock Holmes. When it’s adjusted straight and correctly, he nods, reclining into the back of the sofa.
The single rose fills the room with a heady, rich scent that would make most people sneeze.
Nevertheless, John thinks its the best air he’s breathed in while.
In fact, it almost smells like Sherlock.
Thank you so much for your sweet comments, they keep me writing! :) I hope you enjoy this next installment.