[ fanfiction ] SHERLOCK: and flooded lungs
Title: and flooded lungs
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters/Pairings: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes (minor).
Rating: PG.
Genre: Introspective, angst.
Word Count: 434.
Summary: Prompt: "When Sherlock returns, John doesn't punch him, hug him, or faint. He runs away."
Notes: Initially posted anon. Because it was very spur-of-the-moment and I was feeling embarrassed. :| Suicidal thoughts (sort-of?), post-Hiatus. idek.
All it takes is one glance. One glance at the man on the doorstep, one glance at the way Mrs Hudson is clinging to him, one glance at the coat and the hair and the small bag in his hand-one glance is all it takes for John to realise his world has fallen apart again.
So he runs.
Shoves his keys back into his pockets, turns on his heel and just.
Just runs.
Runs until his lungs feel like they're about to explode; runs until the pain in his muscles is a sharp, aching numbness; runs until his heart hammers so hard it feels on fire.
John runs because he can't face this. Any of it. It's been three years, and he'd thought-he'd thought he was doing... fine. Not badly, but not well, and certainly... certainly not like before.
But he'd thought-and to realise that it was all wrong, that he'd been the one to die in the... fall, not-not that utter fucking bastard who just... Just, god.
God.
So John runs and runs and runs until he can't run any more, until his muscles rebel and dump him onto concrete, dragging in breaths that he almost wishes won't come.
He hasn't wanted to die this much in so long.
Which is stupid, so stupid, because why would he want to die now? Why now, when he can actually feel things again, feel the sorrow and the anger and the relief? And not just a shallow imitation of emotion, either. This is full and round, filling up his insides, expanding with each gasping breath he takes, making him feel right inside his skin for the first time in... in years.
He's on his knees now, his hands alternately kneading at his burning thighs (because he hasn't run like that since-) and wiping the sweat from his face.
Christ, even the colours are different. More vibrant. More real. Not beautiful, just... real.
Something in him wants to laugh (or cry; he can't tell them apart any more), but he stifles the impulse. He probably already looks like a madman, and there's no sense in compounding the image.
It's another fifteen minutes before John can haul himself up from the ground without his legs shaking like a newborn fawn's, and another ten before he can flag down a cab to take him back to Baker Street. Back to where his re-shattered life is waiting to be put back together. Again.
He spends the entire ride back trying to decide whether to punch Sherlock or hug him or just pretend nothing ever happened.
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters/Pairings: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes (minor).
Rating: PG.
Genre: Introspective, angst.
Word Count: 434.
Summary: Prompt: "When Sherlock returns, John doesn't punch him, hug him, or faint. He runs away."
Notes: Initially posted anon. Because it was very spur-of-the-moment and I was feeling embarrassed. :| Suicidal thoughts (sort-of?), post-Hiatus. idek.
All it takes is one glance. One glance at the man on the doorstep, one glance at the way Mrs Hudson is clinging to him, one glance at the coat and the hair and the small bag in his hand-one glance is all it takes for John to realise his world has fallen apart again.
So he runs.
Shoves his keys back into his pockets, turns on his heel and just.
Just runs.
Runs until his lungs feel like they're about to explode; runs until the pain in his muscles is a sharp, aching numbness; runs until his heart hammers so hard it feels on fire.
John runs because he can't face this. Any of it. It's been three years, and he'd thought-he'd thought he was doing... fine. Not badly, but not well, and certainly... certainly not like before.
But he'd thought-and to realise that it was all wrong, that he'd been the one to die in the... fall, not-not that utter fucking bastard who just... Just, god.
God.
So John runs and runs and runs until he can't run any more, until his muscles rebel and dump him onto concrete, dragging in breaths that he almost wishes won't come.
He hasn't wanted to die this much in so long.
Which is stupid, so stupid, because why would he want to die now? Why now, when he can actually feel things again, feel the sorrow and the anger and the relief? And not just a shallow imitation of emotion, either. This is full and round, filling up his insides, expanding with each gasping breath he takes, making him feel right inside his skin for the first time in... in years.
He's on his knees now, his hands alternately kneading at his burning thighs (because he hasn't run like that since-) and wiping the sweat from his face.
Christ, even the colours are different. More vibrant. More real. Not beautiful, just... real.
Something in him wants to laugh (or cry; he can't tell them apart any more), but he stifles the impulse. He probably already looks like a madman, and there's no sense in compounding the image.
It's another fifteen minutes before John can haul himself up from the ground without his legs shaking like a newborn fawn's, and another ten before he can flag down a cab to take him back to Baker Street. Back to where his re-shattered life is waiting to be put back together. Again.
He spends the entire ride back trying to decide whether to punch Sherlock or hug him or just pretend nothing ever happened.