i’m writing post-reichenbach breakup fic at 3am while listening to big bang & taeyang on repeat i think i lost control of my life at some point
wip snippet under the cut
John buys a new mobile. He texts his number to the several army mates who have returned from Afghanistan and the roster for the rugby club he joined a year ago. Harry texts back asking him if everything’s all right. She must have seen the news coverage about Sherlock’s return. John doesn’t watch television any more. He also doesn’t text Harry back.
He doesn’t throw the old one away. He keeps it on the kitchen counter of his one-room flat where it blinks with new messages every morning. It’s an exercise in self-control not to touch it.
They meet by accident—or maybe Sherlock’s been following him for days without him noticing. John doesn’t know. He also doesn’t care.
Fridays, John buys lunch from a sushi joint down on Balham where he sits in a window seat and watches the pedestrians pass. He eats salmon and avocado rolls and sips on ginger ale for twenty-five minutes before he goes back to work. He likes the soy sauce mixture that this restaurant drizzles over the sushi—even as he thinks about cutting down on his sodium intake.
He recognizes Sherlock halfway down the other side of the street, even with all his curls gone. John leans away from the window and hopes he hasn’t been spotted. No such luck. Sherlock looks down the street for approaching cars before he hurries across it. John actually gets off the stool and turns with the intent of asking the woman behind the cash register for a takeaway box when someone raps at the window.
John can’t help himself. He turns to meet Sherlock’s eyes through the glass.
Sherlock looks awful. There are circles under his eyes and his cheekbones are even more pronounced than John remembers. He has a new coat—no less dramatic than the last one—and it looks too big on him.
John stays frozen—he can’t leave if Sherlock is outside. But he can’t stay in here either, not if Sherlock is going to come in too.
Sherlock has a palm against the window and he just stares at John. John stares back.
Eventually Sherlock digs into the pocket of his coat and pulls out a notepad. He writes something and presses it up against the glass. John can read the looping scrawl with far too much familiarity. You look good.
John’s eyes jump from the notepad to Sherlock’s unreadable expression.
Sherlock pulls the notepad back, flips the page, and writes something else. John reads it through the glass. I’m sorry.
John fights the urge to laugh hysterically. Sherlock tucks the notepad back in his pocket and nods, once. He gives John something like the parody of a smile before backing away from the window and continuing down the street. Maybe it’s the last time John will ever see him in person.
He sits down and clenches his hands around the edge of the stool to keep himself from running after Sherlock. There is a faint handprint left on the glass.