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Dear William,
You’re a few minutes late and I don’t mind telling you my hands are shaking as I type this. I’m sure you’re coming. I mean, you have to. I’m having a drink to steady me. Haven’t had nerves like this since I was a teenager! :-) I just want you to know that I
“Hello John.”
Can’t be.
“It’s.” A loud inhale.
Can. Not. Be.
“So good to see you again.”
In John’s peripheral vision: dark coat over dark suit. Long-fingered hand extended for a shake, of all things. The floor is tilting. He cuts his gaze upward but can barely tolerate turning his head.
“No.”
“John.”
How the fuck does he sound so normal. Normal. Back from the dead—liar—normal. John stands up so fast his chair scrapes loudly. His head is light but he fights it, stays upright as he jams his hand in his back pocket for his billfold, rips a note from it and tosses it on the table to pay for the whisky.
“John.”
Hand on his arm. This ghost. This
“No. You don’t get to—“
Bastard. Sonofabitch.
He shakes off the hand, grabs his coat off the back of his chair and tucks it under his arm as he starts to go. Sherlock doesn’t even hesitate, just trails him.
Storming down the pavement, John refuses to turn.
“John, please. Obviously I miscalculated. Please give me time to explain.”
John stops so short Sherlock runs into his back; he has sense enough to take a large step back. His eyes are wide and wet. John can barely look at them. At his face. His lying face.
“I put a gun.” John spits, shouts. “To my head.”
Sherlock’s shoulders heave but he keeps his mouth shut.
“You don’t get to do this. Don’t contact me again.”
John wheels, stomps, is dying to run but his chest is packed full of explosive and shrapnel, he is a walking barrel bomb and he is so, so heavy.
“John!” Sherlock calls from behind him; he isn’t following. But then he is: jogging after him with his huge feet slapping the wet pavement. “Just five minutes. Two minutes!”
John feels something explode up and out and then realizes he has punched Sherlock hard on the jaw, sent him stumbling backward. His hand aches and he’s grateful for the pain.
“Don’t follow me. I don’t want you to know where I live.” John can hear the murder in his own voice; Sherlock’s lip is split wide and pouring blood and it’s so much less than he deserves. John rounds the next corner—taking the long way ‘round just in case Sherlock tries to follow.
He peels the tape that says “Watson” off the buzzer by the front door, just in case, and somehow makes it all the way into his dismal bedsit before he starts choking on sobs.
That lying bastard. Heartless.
He has never felt like such a fool.