Sleep and Stale Whisky
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Word Count: 403
Summary: Post-Reichenbach drabbling. Apologies for the formatting, it won't let me space it correctly for some reason.
The inside of his mouth tastes like a mix of sadness and stagnation, and John idly counts back days, trying to remember the last time he brushed his teeth. Stagnation and sadness taste a hell of a lot like stale whisky and too many days spent sleeping on the couch and watching mindless, awful telly.
He stops counting at seven, more because of a vague embarrassment than anything else. He’s cold. There’s a piece of dry ice lodged in the base of his belly, sublimating and filling his insides with burning cold gas.
Well, a metaphorical piece of dry ice. John’s not as good with chemistry as Sherlock - was - but he’s still pretty sure that actual dry ice in your stomach would kill you fairly quick.
John pushes himself off the couch and limps to the shower, standing under a scalding spray that does shit-all to warm him up. If it wasn’t so melodramatic, he’d indulge himself in thoughts of never warming again. Then again, a man who hasn’t shaved or brushed his teeth in (about) seven days can’t say much about melodrama, John supposes.
John closes his eyes and leans his forehead against the sweating tile wall, hot water running over his spine and arse and swirling down the drain at his feet. He’s got bruises all over his arms and legs.
He’s not sure what they’re from. He went to a bar and systematically worked his way through the drinks offered, getting utterly pissed after the funeral. The bartender cut him off eventually, but after that he really doesn’t remember much.
Somehow he got back to 221B, and John’s almost sure he hasn’t moved since then.
It’s possible the dry ice feeling is actually hunger.
John steps out of the shower and stares at the fogged mirror long enough for it to go clear again. He’s got at least a week’s worth of scraggy blond beard sprouting from his cheeks and chin. He’s never looked good in a beard. Especially not now that it’s peppered with gray and white flecks.
He reaches for his razor. He snicks a stripe out of the beard without bothering with shaving cream, and by the time he’s done he’s bleeding from nicks and shallow cuts and the lower half of his face is stinging like mad.
John picks up his toothbrush.
It’s time to move on. He's a soldier - soldiering on is his speciality.
Warnings: None
Word Count: 403
Summary: Post-Reichenbach drabbling. Apologies for the formatting, it won't let me space it correctly for some reason.
The inside of his mouth tastes like a mix of sadness and stagnation, and John idly counts back days, trying to remember the last time he brushed his teeth. Stagnation and sadness taste a hell of a lot like stale whisky and too many days spent sleeping on the couch and watching mindless, awful telly.
He stops counting at seven, more because of a vague embarrassment than anything else. He’s cold. There’s a piece of dry ice lodged in the base of his belly, sublimating and filling his insides with burning cold gas.
Well, a metaphorical piece of dry ice. John’s not as good with chemistry as Sherlock - was - but he’s still pretty sure that actual dry ice in your stomach would kill you fairly quick.
John pushes himself off the couch and limps to the shower, standing under a scalding spray that does shit-all to warm him up. If it wasn’t so melodramatic, he’d indulge himself in thoughts of never warming again. Then again, a man who hasn’t shaved or brushed his teeth in (about) seven days can’t say much about melodrama, John supposes.
John closes his eyes and leans his forehead against the sweating tile wall, hot water running over his spine and arse and swirling down the drain at his feet. He’s got bruises all over his arms and legs.
He’s not sure what they’re from. He went to a bar and systematically worked his way through the drinks offered, getting utterly pissed after the funeral. The bartender cut him off eventually, but after that he really doesn’t remember much.
Somehow he got back to 221B, and John’s almost sure he hasn’t moved since then.
It’s possible the dry ice feeling is actually hunger.
John steps out of the shower and stares at the fogged mirror long enough for it to go clear again. He’s got at least a week’s worth of scraggy blond beard sprouting from his cheeks and chin. He’s never looked good in a beard. Especially not now that it’s peppered with gray and white flecks.
He reaches for his razor. He snicks a stripe out of the beard without bothering with shaving cream, and by the time he’s done he’s bleeding from nicks and shallow cuts and the lower half of his face is stinging like mad.
John picks up his toothbrush.
It’s time to move on. He's a soldier - soldiering on is his speciality.