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Trains take you places, places you want to be, sometimes places you have to be. They lull you with the roll and rumble of the rails, the racing countryside rushing past the eye while everything else hangs suspended in the carriage, somewhere between station A and station B.
He’s thinner now, but harder too, like the walnut tree that only yields its best when beaten soundly. He has more to give but not yet, not here, where tears are still met with questions and answers are too expensive. Tears can wait. They’ve waited three years, what’s a few more hours, a few more stations. He shifts in his seat and takes out his phone. Thumbs the screen, still startled by the glowing letters there, by their promise, their arrogant impossibility.
There’ll be reason, he knows that, and indisputable validity. But what scares him the most is that he’ll forgive, not eventually, but all too quickly and easily, because he wants to, because his heart was made to love this man so completely.
The carriage jolts, slows, wheels grinding towards London’s inevitability. It’s been a bloody long ride for John Watson this round, getting from station A to station B. Worth every damned ache and dying for, to come home to the only place in the world he’s ever wanted to be.
