GodsDragonGirl

This is very ridiculous, so don’t take it too seriously. Done in response to a prompt by Lenka. Blame her!

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When Sebastian Moran stepped out of the shower, two things happened. 

He smelt smoke (a lot of it), and heard a loud thrum of music pound down the hallway. 

Neither of these things would have been alarming, if not for two similar facts: Sebastian hadn’t left the stove on — nor had he turned on music before entering the bathroom. He didn’t even own a decent stereo. 

Sebastian pulled on a pair of jeans, tossed the towel on the bathroom counter and yanked open the door. He slid his gun into the waist band of his pants for good measure, but didn’t reach for it as he strode down the hall with quick, angry strides.

He knew who it was. 

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Something I wrote in response to a thought that came to me- what if Sherlock’s skull is named Gladstone and thats how BBC incorporates the “dog”? I’m at a stand still with it, but this is what I have so far! The days are markers of how long its been since the Fall. 

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By day 122, the skull was named Gladstone. 

John didn’t know where he’d picked up the name. Maybe a comrade during the war, maybe a client during a case. It didn’t matter. He didn’t care.

All he knew was that it sounded strong, respectable, and a little bit odd.

Perfect. 

By day 135, Gladstone was the recipient of countless conversations, many of which lasted far into the night. John didn’t touch much in the flat, not since day 1. He didn’t move things or pack them away unless Mrs. Hudson insisted on it, which she never did. The cluttered living room remained much the same, faded newspaper clippings strung in odd places, scribbles of old cases and vials of suspicious contents littering every surface available. 

In the evenings, after his shift at the hospital (St. Bart’s-  a day 113 decision) a steaming cup of tea could be found, perched next to the skull as John sank into his chosen chair and sipped away at the pot he’d brewed. It wasn’t that he made tea for two on accident. Mrs. Hudson thought he did it without thinking, that it was a mistake and that it pierced him through and through whenever he realize the banshee wail of the violin wasn’t shrilling behind him at the window. When he turned and saw that there was no one to hand the cup to.

That wasn’t why John brewed for two. 

Everyone thought he was so fragile.

The reality was he was a soldier, and he did what he always did. He survived. 

John Watson put the kettle on, went through the motions of pouring two glasses, walked over to his chair, put one cup by Sherlock’s, and sat across from it. Not to weep bitter tears or lament the loss of his best friend. Not to remember the gaping hole in his life.

Because how could he forget? 

How could he forget for one moment that Sherlock Holmes was dead? 

It was ludicrous to think he would need reminders, that there were moments in his memory spared from blood soaked concrete and pressing hands. How lovely and terrifying the possibility of forgetting seemed.

No, that wasn’t it.

He never forgot.