Sherlock Fic: Category Two; Chapter Three
Chapter 3:
John pulls the zipper of his coat up, right under his chin. He doesn’t wear scarves; he just pulls his jacket tighter and enwombs the body heat between skin and jumper.
His shift was stressful. Saturdays are usually chaotic; today there was a car accident in the city centre. Ugly injuries, detached limbs, hysterical family members, far too many lost patients, too many decisions that can be made wrong. When John leaves the hospital it begins to snow.
Julie’s parents are going to visit them the next weekend. Strangely Julie is obsessed with the idea that they need a saucier. They always did without a saucier but suddenly they need one, badly. That’s why John fights his way though the City on a late Saturday afternoon, combs through hardware shops and has several unsatisfying conversations via the mobile with Julie who wants to choose the right saucier from the distance. Finally John decides on an artless model, white, neither flourish nor design nor engraving. Simple, uncomplicated. It won’t be improper, it won’t make any problems, in return it’s boring and dull. John often decides on dull.
The saleswoman takes ages to wrap the saucier in three layers of grey paper. When John leaves the shop the snow had become dirty and wet under the feet of hundreds of fast-paced people. But on some secret places the snow stayed white and mellow, on top of the street lights, between the branches of the few trees which loom osseous in the dark sky. On a distribution box a small amount of snow piled up, a boy snatches it up with gloved hands, forms the ice crystals to a ball. Before he can throw it, people dash in his sight field. John gets pushed forwards, he holds the bag with the saucier tight, relieved it has been wrapped in three layers. Humans simultaneously surge out of the shops, he becomes part of the stream, he just moves along and hopes he can escape into the next back street. Dark coats, furred jackets and colourful bonnets form a bulk, someone steps on his foot, an elbow pokes his rips, his coat cushions the blow, but it is still impolite. John turns around, wants to be outraged, changes his mind and wants to move his head back.
He sees Sherlock for exactly three seconds. Like a constant in the flowing human mass his head protrudes from the crowd. His dark curls are a bit longer than in his memory, half profile, popped coat collar, looking down, most probably targeting his mobile phone, texting.
A man with a dark grey woollen cap pushes John forwards, mutters incomprehensible words of the kind you don’t have to understand because the sound itself says everything. John turns around, his face hot, the eyes wide open, the pulse in his throat, the saucier in his arms held even tighter. 300 feet later he manages to escape to a calm side street. Just once he looks around the corner back into the human mass, and of course he can’t see Sherlock any more.
John pulls the zipper of his coat up, right under his chin. He doesn’t wear scarves; he just pulls his jacket tighter and enwombs the body heat between skin and jumper.
His shift was stressful. Saturdays are usually chaotic; today there was a car accident in the city centre. Ugly injuries, detached limbs, hysterical family members, far too many lost patients, too many decisions that can be made wrong. When John leaves the hospital it begins to snow.
Julie’s parents are going to visit them the next weekend. Strangely Julie is obsessed with the idea that they need a saucier. They always did without a saucier but suddenly they need one, badly. That’s why John fights his way though the City on a late Saturday afternoon, combs through hardware shops and has several unsatisfying conversations via the mobile with Julie who wants to choose the right saucier from the distance. Finally John decides on an artless model, white, neither flourish nor design nor engraving. Simple, uncomplicated. It won’t be improper, it won’t make any problems, in return it’s boring and dull. John often decides on dull.
The saleswoman takes ages to wrap the saucier in three layers of grey paper. When John leaves the shop the snow had become dirty and wet under the feet of hundreds of fast-paced people. But on some secret places the snow stayed white and mellow, on top of the street lights, between the branches of the few trees which loom osseous in the dark sky. On a distribution box a small amount of snow piled up, a boy snatches it up with gloved hands, forms the ice crystals to a ball. Before he can throw it, people dash in his sight field. John gets pushed forwards, he holds the bag with the saucier tight, relieved it has been wrapped in three layers. Humans simultaneously surge out of the shops, he becomes part of the stream, he just moves along and hopes he can escape into the next back street. Dark coats, furred jackets and colourful bonnets form a bulk, someone steps on his foot, an elbow pokes his rips, his coat cushions the blow, but it is still impolite. John turns around, wants to be outraged, changes his mind and wants to move his head back.
He sees Sherlock for exactly three seconds. Like a constant in the flowing human mass his head protrudes from the crowd. His dark curls are a bit longer than in his memory, half profile, popped coat collar, looking down, most probably targeting his mobile phone, texting.
A man with a dark grey woollen cap pushes John forwards, mutters incomprehensible words of the kind you don’t have to understand because the sound itself says everything. John turns around, his face hot, the eyes wide open, the pulse in his throat, the saucier in his arms held even tighter. 300 feet later he manages to escape to a calm side street. Just once he looks around the corner back into the human mass, and of course he can’t see Sherlock any more.