Delphine, 25.
Main fandoms are Supernatural, Doctor Who, Sherlock and Lord of the Rings, and I live a Martin Freeman and Tom Hiddleston appreciation life.
We are OTP
The Fili to my Kili
Little Sister
I am one of her wives
Special People
I believe, I search, I find and don’t let go.
Chapters: 8
Words: 14256
Summary: John receives a text consisting only of a number and the attached message: “[07463 36855X] Keep this number. Hold on to it. Use it very sparingly.”. The story is told from John’s PoV.
Just posted the last chapter!
Thank you for taking time to read this <3
As writing is not really my forte, it makes me very happy!
Tagged #things i wrote
I updated!
Took me long enough, phew.
I updated :D
I updated my work!
“Your John is a bit crazy, no?” - Boyfriend
![[Companion piece to this one]
Quiet. That’s all it has been in 221b since his fall. Quiet, calm, peaceful. He would have hated it. He would have yelled to the world that he was bored. He would have walked round and round the flat, stomping his feet on the floor, demanding a case immediately and throwing a tantrum like a five year-old. Then he would have made his way to the sofa - walking over the coffee table as usual - and slumped onto it, wrapping himself dramatically in his dressing gown.
John smirked. It has been only one year but it felt like ten. Nothing has changed much in the flat, he couldn’t bear touching anything. He still cleans up, yes, but the kitchen table is always littered with all of Sherlock’s things: the microscope, several test-tubes on a little rack, dozens of flying notes scribbled in a hurry on used paper, beakers, phials and other jumble. He always makes tea for two and can’t bring himself to stop, even if he knows that was a bit silly and quite a waste. He has locked Sherlock’s bedroom and always keeps the key in his trouser’s pocket. That is a bit silly too, but he feels reassured with it.
John spends most of his days out. After all, he still has his job at the surgery. On his day off, like today, it’s always the same routine: he wakes up, prepares two nice hot cups of tea and four toasts covered in jam; he takes a shower, dresses up; he puts the dishes in the sink and gets his coat; he goes to Sherlock’s grave and spends an hour there; he comes back home, settles in Sherlock’s armchair and takes the photograph laying on the little table next to it.
John had taken the photograph when they went to Dartmoor. Sherlock was facing the sun and looking away. John had been careful not to be noticed readying the camera and managed to get Sherlock unaware. Of course, the brilliant bastard had thrown a fit because ‘this is unacceptable John I told you NOT to take pictures of me’. John had giggled and said that it was too late and he bloody well intended to keep it. The detective had rolled his eyes at that, but oddly enough, he had seemed amused. But that hadn’t prevented him from sulking for three hours.
You impossible git, John thinks. You knew I was taking a photo and yet you let me do it.
John smoothes the photograph with his thumbs. There are fingerprints and creases on it. At first, he had placed it in his coat pocket, then in his wallet, but he prefers now to let it on that table so it wouldn’t get damaged any further. He stays like this for several hours, never letting go of the photograph, even taking it with him as he gets up to make himself a cup of coffee.
Then, as the sun begins to decline, the routine goes on: John puts the photograph away and orders chinese take-out; he eats, then he goes to Sherlock’s room, verifies all is clean and in order and locks it again; he goes in the sitting room, takes Sherlock’s violin out of its case, verifies it’s properly tuned and cleaned and puts it delicately back; he changes into his pajamas, watches telly for a bit, making the same snarky comments his friend used to make; then he turns the telly and the lights off and goes to his bedroom.
Everything is ready, he says, lying on his bed and looking at the ceiling. Everything is clean, the laboratory equipment is clean, the violin is tuned and clean, your bedroom is clean. Everything is at its place. You can come back now.
John suppresses the tears that threaten to flow down his face.
Anytime now, Sherlock.](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m90p5atOS81rnvef5o1_500.png)
posted 
![[Publishing this again because I edited the photo to go with the ficlet]
Sherlock is tired. It has been one year, eight months, twelve days and ten hours since his ‘fall’. He is now on the terrace of some shabby hotel in the middle of the last city his investigation took him. He is getting closer and closer to Moran, he can feel it in his bones, but the lead stops here. He has nothing more than a cigarette butt that proves the sniper stayed in this hotel at least one night. And even with all his deductive abilities, he has to take a break and collect more evidence, expand his information network. Again.
Sherlock sighs, takes a pull of his own cigarette and reaches for something in his coat pocket. He delicately gets the photograph out and smoothes the little creases that formed at the corners with his fingers. He exhales the smoke and indulges himself a rare smile.
The photograph is one of John. Mrs Hudson took it during the surprise dinner she made for the doctor to celebrate his birthday. Sherlock had been very busy that day, cleaning up all the flat - really, he even threw away all the body parts and put all the laboratory equipment away - while John was at work.
That was tremendously tedious, he murmurs, taking another drag.
John is laughing on the photo and even if he tries his best, rummaging through all his mind palace, Sherlock can’t remember what had made him laugh. But it doesn’t matter. He remembers the sound of John’s laugh. He remembers laughing with him. He remembers seeing only John in the flat and hearing only John’s voice softly asking him to ‘please just for once could you eat something’.
Sherlock takes another lungful of smoke and throws the cigarette on the ground, putting it out with his foot. He spends another ten minutes looking at the photograph, smudging the tears that fell on it. He didn’t even notice he was crying.
He wiped his face with his sleeve and put back the photograph in his pocket. He has to go now. He will find Moran, even if that takes him another ten years. He must. Sherlock wants to hear that laugh again, he wants to see this smile on John’s face again. Just feeling the photograph with his fingers when he puts his hand in his pocket is reason enough to keep him going.](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m8uul6PdHd1rnvef5o1_500.png)