Prompt 6: Here Comes The Sun
Title: Here Comes The Sun
Author: arwen_kenobi
Rating: PG-13
'Verse: BBC Sherlock
Warnings: Depression (grieving), Post-Reichenbach
Word Count: 596
Summary: There was a time, a time that felt like another life but was really not all that long ago, when he'd have welcomed open curtains and a sunny day.
Author's Notes: For Prompt 6 of watsons_woes July writing prompts. This one was the poem Futility by Wilfred Owen
Mrs. Hudson must have opened the windows. John hasn't opened the curtains since...and there it is. He's in his head already and he's been awake for perhaps three seconds. He sighs, tries to control the tidal wave of his grief from taking him into its depths so soon upon waking - he needs to at least make it out of bed before that. Then, at least, he can say that he's tried. He turns his thoughts to how in the hell Mrs. Hudson had managed to get in here without him knowing. He spies the near empty bottle on his nightstand and stops wondering.
There was a time, a time that felt like another life but was really not all that long ago, when he'd have welcomed open curtains and a sunny day. Now he feels nothing. Not even a scrap of warmth from his sun soaked bed. If he had his way the sun would have never shined again after...
There he is again. Like he'd never left. And he'd never would, for good or ill. Not completely.
Somewhere in him there's a dark hiss that says that he should have turned down the offer to flat share. Even now, when he's right back where he'd started from but that much worse, he cannot regret anything. He'd take that offer every time, even knowing how it ends.
John forces himself to sit up, his head and stomach protest but not so much as his gut and his heart do. What right have you to get up? What reason have you to get up?
Because Sherlock Holmes jumped off a building to save your miserable excuse for a life and you owe at least an actual attempt. Up off your arse, soldier.
He swings his feet onto the floor, grumbles a little, and then stands. His leg twinges painfully and his knees snap and pop as he walks over to the window. He yanks the curtains shut and slowly makes his way down the stairs. He makes sure the sitting room is dark and then flops into his chair. Maybe in an hour or two he'll have enough drive to make it to making tea.
The sun tries to shine through the fabric of the curtains and the cracks between them. John experimentally moves a bare foot into the path of a beam. He feels nothing. It's almost comforting to know for certain that nothing can help him now. Even before a little bit of sun had at least gotten a smile out of him.
Mrs. Hudson knocks on the door a short while later. She lets herself in and starts making tea and toast for him. John doesn't move. Doesn't care that he's sitting here in a pair of thread bare pyjama bottoms and no shirt.
"Why don't you let the sun in, dear?" she asks. "Let a little light in." She walks across the room and throws open the curtains. John doesn't even blink as the bright summer's day blasts through the room. Nothing is left untouched except John's heart, which continues to sit in pieces in his chest. She looks back at him as if expecting him to perk up like a dying flower. Instead he just sits.
Tears gather in her eyes and John cannot even feel bad for being the cause of them. "What have you done?" she whispers.
"He's saved me." For what, though? Of course the one time that Sherlock makes a truly emotional and unselfish decision he would fail to account for how it would affect other people.
Author: arwen_kenobi
Rating: PG-13
'Verse: BBC Sherlock
Warnings: Depression (grieving), Post-Reichenbach
Word Count: 596
Summary: There was a time, a time that felt like another life but was really not all that long ago, when he'd have welcomed open curtains and a sunny day.
Author's Notes: For Prompt 6 of watsons_woes July writing prompts. This one was the poem Futility by Wilfred Owen
Mrs. Hudson must have opened the windows. John hasn't opened the curtains since...and there it is. He's in his head already and he's been awake for perhaps three seconds. He sighs, tries to control the tidal wave of his grief from taking him into its depths so soon upon waking - he needs to at least make it out of bed before that. Then, at least, he can say that he's tried. He turns his thoughts to how in the hell Mrs. Hudson had managed to get in here without him knowing. He spies the near empty bottle on his nightstand and stops wondering.
There was a time, a time that felt like another life but was really not all that long ago, when he'd have welcomed open curtains and a sunny day. Now he feels nothing. Not even a scrap of warmth from his sun soaked bed. If he had his way the sun would have never shined again after...
There he is again. Like he'd never left. And he'd never would, for good or ill. Not completely.
Somewhere in him there's a dark hiss that says that he should have turned down the offer to flat share. Even now, when he's right back where he'd started from but that much worse, he cannot regret anything. He'd take that offer every time, even knowing how it ends.
John forces himself to sit up, his head and stomach protest but not so much as his gut and his heart do. What right have you to get up? What reason have you to get up?
Because Sherlock Holmes jumped off a building to save your miserable excuse for a life and you owe at least an actual attempt. Up off your arse, soldier.
He swings his feet onto the floor, grumbles a little, and then stands. His leg twinges painfully and his knees snap and pop as he walks over to the window. He yanks the curtains shut and slowly makes his way down the stairs. He makes sure the sitting room is dark and then flops into his chair. Maybe in an hour or two he'll have enough drive to make it to making tea.
The sun tries to shine through the fabric of the curtains and the cracks between them. John experimentally moves a bare foot into the path of a beam. He feels nothing. It's almost comforting to know for certain that nothing can help him now. Even before a little bit of sun had at least gotten a smile out of him.
Mrs. Hudson knocks on the door a short while later. She lets herself in and starts making tea and toast for him. John doesn't move. Doesn't care that he's sitting here in a pair of thread bare pyjama bottoms and no shirt.
"Why don't you let the sun in, dear?" she asks. "Let a little light in." She walks across the room and throws open the curtains. John doesn't even blink as the bright summer's day blasts through the room. Nothing is left untouched except John's heart, which continues to sit in pieces in his chest. She looks back at him as if expecting him to perk up like a dying flower. Instead he just sits.
Tears gather in her eyes and John cannot even feel bad for being the cause of them. "What have you done?" she whispers.
"He's saved me." For what, though? Of course the one time that Sherlock makes a truly emotional and unselfish decision he would fail to account for how it would affect other people.