Prompting Part XXIX

[sherlockbbc_fic]

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Comments

Nobody Home 1/5

[anonymous]

I hope this is sort of what you were looking for. I gave it a somewhat happy ending, I hope that's okay! This isn't brit-picked or beta'd and it's inspired, of course, by the song and very lightly by a scene from the film.

Warnings for: Light sexual content, mention of drugs/drug use and minor violence.

Nobody Home

I've got electric light, I've got second sight
I've got amazing powers of observation.
And that is how I know when I try to get through
on the telephone to you, there'll be nobody home.

Call #001, London
One week After Death.

He knows he shouldn't, but he does it anyway.

His hands shake as he presses each number on the payphone, listening to the quiet beep coming through the earpiece, the soft click of buttons under his fingertips. He swallows thickly, twists the cord around his wrist and shuffles closer to the glass of the booth, keeping his head down, eyes up, observant

Re: Nobody Home 2/5

[anonymous]

(“All your jeans are black!” John mused as he helped Sherlock clean up the spill. It wasn't true, though. Sherlock had several pairs - pairs he'd never wear in public, of course - that were varying shades of dark blue and one hideously old second-hand pair of faded white-washed jeans with holes in the knees.

He wore them once around the flat, on laundry day. John had stopped in his tracks and stared - actually stared - at Sherlock when he came out of his room. Then his eyes had flicked not-so-subtly to Sherlock's crotch, and his tongue had not-so-subtly poked its way out of his mouth and swept across his lower lip. When Sherlock cleared his throat, John had blushed and awkwardly left the room to go upstairs and pretend he hadn't just been caught ogling

Re: Nobody Home 3/5

[anonymous]

“We'll get you what you need, hon,” one of the girls grins, and she reminds him too much of Moriarty, so he shakes his head and pushes off the bed, wobbles his way towards the door. The girls giggle again as he struggles to put his coat on. He really can't remember when the last time he was this drunk was.

Somehow, against all odds, Sherlock manages to find his room. It's cool with the air conditioning unit on, and dark and pleasantly still when he lies down on the bed, one arm and one leg dangling off the ledge (a trick Victor taught him in university to make the room stop spinning. Surprisingly enough, it worked, and Sherlock never forgot it.)

He dials the wrong number the first two times, the numbers jiggly-blurry and glowing up in his face from the palm of his hand. The third time he gets it right, and the phone rings until John's automated message picks up. Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, to say something into the machine and instead vomits down the front of his shirt.

Call #097, Venice
One year, one month, two weeks,

Re: Nobody Home 4/5

[anonymous]

The transaction goes smoothly. Sherlock doesn't mind losing a bit of money for a good cause. Moran holds out his hand to shake it and instead of taking it Sherlock jabs a knife into his stomach, slices down, then twists. Moran gulps, stares at him in disbelief, then falls backwards with a thud.

Sherlock throws the bag of powder down onto his stomach and departs as quickly as he can. He wishes he could sit and watch, wishes he could draw it out and make Moran suffer for what he did - what he could have done - to John. But Sherlock doesn't have time, and as he rounds the corner a few blocks over, he already hears the sirens sounding in the distance.

(It'll be too late to save him.)

Sherlock showers and shaves, packs his bags for the morning. He twiddles his phone for a few minutes. It's all over now, he thinks. He's going home. He could phone John and talk to him this time. Leave a message. Hope, against all odds, that this time John will pick up the phone.

It rings, rings, rings, bloody rings. There's no answer. Not even John's

Re: Nobody Home 5/5

[anonymous]

Now there are lines and creases in his skin. His shoulder is stiff and his leg is even stiffer. Not walking with his cane, at least. Give it time, Sherlock thinks, and he will. He's lost weight, there are dark bags under his eyes, and he's arguing with The Woman from John's Phone.

Arguing over mangos, Sherlock sniffs. Dull. Boring. Chemical defect.

That's when he hears it. That's when everything changes, and the grey filter over him lifts.

“Harry,” John says. He frowns, shakes his head, says, “Harry, we can't afford two, and a basket of strawberries and a bottle of Italian wine and... and that.”

“For God's sake, John,” the woman - Harry, John's sister Harry. John's sister - scoffs. “I'm paying for it. And it's cheese!”

“That is not cheese! Cheese is that big block of orange stuff. That is bird shitSherlock's heart hammers in his chest. He looks around, tries to find a good spot. Somewhere to hide, or somewhere to be out in the open, he doesn't know. Somewhere to hide in plain sight, somewhere to be easily accessible. His

Re: Nobody Home 5/5

[bengalensis]

Thanks so much for filling, Anon!

This is a heck of a lot happier than what I was thinking, but that's no bad thing. I like the fake-out with Harry (I was sure it'd be Mary) and the fact that John's message changes in response to Sherlock's mysterious calls. Even from such a distance, Sherlock has a little influence on John's life.

Thank you!

Re: Nobody Home 5/5

[anonymous]

I normally write a lot of angst so I'm not sure what happened here to be honest. Glad you liked it anyway! I hope you get an angstier fill on top of this one, as well. It really is a lovely songl. :)