Chapter Text
After his third attempt to slide the key into the lock, John let out a shaky sigh.
Harry had left him the wrong key. Again.
As this day wasn't as shitty as it could get, he was now freezing his arse off on the pavement in front of their flat, in the pale light of October. Rubbing his hands against each other he considered calling Mike again and asking him if he could sleep at his place for the night. Then he remembered the terrible backache he’d endured after the last time, and the fact that Molly was probably spending the night there anyway, and changed his mind. Looking at the small golden key in his left fist, John took his phone out of his pocket and typed his sister's number with numb fingers. The street was quiet; a few passers-by eager to hurry home and leave the frozen wind behind shut doors. When the ringtone resounded more than five times, he hit the call button with all the irritation he could muster. Harry had probably gone out with Clara without thinking about him, likely drunk already. John had hoped meeting Clara would help his sister with the addiction that had appeared when she attended art school. Especially after Harry’s previous girlfriend, her partner at art lessons of four years, had been discovered shagging the professor between classes. John remembered bitterly how Harry had been a walking mess during the fallout, how she used to half-open his door at night, sniffling miserably and slipping beneath his sheets, marking his cotton shirt with tears and mascara. He didn't know the girl personally, didn't even know her name.
Yet after two years and four months, John still hated her with all his heart.
Tightening his coat and flicking his collar up, John began to walk in the other direction, feeling hungry and sodding tired. He strode through the London evening, wondering if one day the earth would be kind enough to turn on its axis without leaving such wounds along the way.
~
After half an hour of purposeless wandering, John managed to find a relatively comfortable bench near the Thames. The city lights were glowing like fireflies on the surface of the dark water, mirroring the starry sky above his head. John had always loved how the silence of the night could keep him from overthinking. It transformed dark moods into scattered fogs of thought nearly too thin to be concerning, giving him a complete oblivion of existence that was perfect beyond articulation. He would lay there with an arm beneath the nape of his neck, eyes glimmering in awe at the sight of bright constellations. When he was eight he remembered learning all the names by heart before going to bed, his fingertips running along the coloured paper with curiosity. He’d daydreamed about becoming an astronaut for years, until his mother explained to him one night that she was going to become a shining star too.
That was when he knew he wanted to be a doctor.
If John couldn't stop the heavens from welcoming each and every soul he loved, then perhaps he could help them to remain on Earth a little longer. Still, John liked to watch the cosmos and forget; feeling only the presence of loved ones by his side while falling asleep. He forgot about the cold, about the pain of his back pressed against unyeilding wood. Letting his ocean eyes drown among the little lights, his eyelids became heavy and closed without realising it. Tonight his dreams were rife with unknown voices, which seemed very far away—the echo of a bullet’s flight and sharp screams. He couldn't see anything but black, blinded with only one undeniably developed sense left. The blackness shifted, becoming a weak shade of blood. This was when John’s head snapped up and he saw the hand slipping from his coat pocket. It only took him an instant to understand, but the thief was already escaping. John tore after him, barely catching up when he saw his adversary’s partner also at the edge of the bridge, running too but clearly not as fast. John attempted to tackle him to the ground as he had been taught in seventh form, but the fellow was stronger than he looked. John stumbled between two barriers, trying desperately to keep his balance. He was a mere yard away from a tumble into the river when the pickpocket pushed him head first into the Thames.
The last coherent thought that crossed John’s mind before darkness swallowed him whole was that the fireflies were no longer shining.