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!
Took me long enough, phew.
I updated :D
I updated :D
I updated my work!
“Your John is a bit crazy, no?" - Boyfriend
[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.