032 || dictated;

[workaphilic]

[He notices immediately. Of course.

Not because John is missing. John is frequently awake before Sherlock, and it's become less unusual for him to be out in the morning, doing this, doing that. (Doing what, he's not always sure. He doesn't always pay attention. (Why not?)) He notices because everything else is missing.

(His breakfast trail throughout the kitchen (covered but not eliminated), tracks in the carpet, the unevenness of the blinds (checking the weather), his tread on the stairs, the squeaky (seventh) step.)

The flat is staggeringly empty, for all its miniscule missing pieces.

Checking is a formality. The nameplate, back to just the one: Sherlock Holmes. (One year, two months, three weeks, and one day since that was last true. Less, depending on how you look at it.)

The dog is making a high-pitched, terrible sound. (Gladstone, John picked the name Gladstone.) It's lying in a heap at the foot of John's (abandoned) arm chair, and Sherlock stares at it from the mouth of the kitchen.

He checks the fridge (jam and deli meat next to the jar of eyes on the second shelf) and the cabinets (tins of beans and boxes of tea). Enough to last him a week or two, maybe more. (After that, well. After that.)

He steps back into the sitting room, and stoops to lift Gladstone up by the middle. It squirms and whines at first, more used to John than to Sherlock, but settles quietly against his shoulder. The sleeve of his dressing gown slips down his arm, and he ignores it.

He opens the journal and writes a filter. He won't pretend to think that Moriarty won't find out within the hour, but he's not in the mood for it, not yet.

(He can see his failures just fine for himself.)]

[ Filtered Away from Jim Moriarty ]

[He's calm when he speaks.]

Dr. John Watson is gone.

[Home? No, he can't say that. Not for certain. There's a possibility the castle's kept him on a string, tucked away, mind wiped, barely himself. Is that better than the alternative? (He doesn't know, can't know, useless.)

Gladstone whines. The journal shuts.

He has nothing else to say.]

Comments

dictated

[ino]

[she almost asks if it's a friend of his, but ... this douchebag having friends? no way. still, she knows what it means when someone has to announce the departure of someone else.]

An acquaintance of yours?

[atrophied]

Thanks for the news.

[ Just as calm. He has nothing else to say. ]

[theabjectauthor]

[there's a knock at the door.

if - or when! - he bothers to look, he'll find a tray with a covered dome and a thermos. iced tea. sandwiches.

remember to eat, you.

he's not sticking around to make sure, this time - he learned better. but he's not giving up either]

[nihilo]

A friend, I take it?

[commandsthewind]

[Elizabeth's mouth is dry. She liked John, he was good, better than most. A brilliant man, and some of the best company she kept.]

He was a good man, and a good subject. [she pauses, taking a moment to form words, of loss, of good bye. Hardly comfort, because she doesn't know completely how to give that.] I shall miss him, very much.

Not here

[jimfromit]

[Why no love Sherlock?

He'd be just as heartbroken...honest!]

Dictated

[the_effect_she_has]

I'm sorry.

[What else can she say? She knows how words mean nothing to this man. Only action.]

[workaphilic]

A friend. [It has the edge of a correction.] My flatmate.

[workaphilic]

[He doesn't answer. That's all it was, information.

And neither of them are interested in pity parties.]

[workaphilic]

[John would be so proud.

The tray vanishes from the hallway within ten minutes or so, an acknowledgement of the gesture, but the odds of it actually being consumed before it's all unfit to eat are slim to none. Not out of stubbornness or pride, but a general lack of appetite.

Still: message heard, loud and clear.]

[workaphilic]

Yes.

[Clear and to-the-point. He's not in the mood for matching wit today.]

[workaphilic]

Yes. [To all of it, the closest Sherlock will ever come to admitting that he'll miss John, too. Very much. There's a pause, and a thread of half-hearted amusement worms its way into his tone.] Not much he wouldn't do for Queen and country.

[workaphilic]

[stiffly:]

It was going to happen eventually.

[workaphilic]

[HE WOULD LIKE TO SET YOU ON FIRE.]

[the_effect_she_has]

Of course. We all go.

[The words sound hollow to her, as they always do. She doesn't want to think of the life Peeta has gone back to. Not now, not ever.]

[commandsthewind]

So it would seem, and for some like me? There is nothing I hold dearer than loyalty. They say women have the more changeable hearts. They're quite wrong in that, men are far more tricky than that. [So someone like John, someone so steadfast an loyal like John... was something she held dear, in her own way.]

[onlyanapple]

...Shame. I liked him. He was interesting.

[nihilo]

Aw, I'm sorry to hear that.

[theabjectauthor]

[good. there'll be another one later this evening.]

[workaphilic]

I would be lying if I said I was surprised.

[And, yes, that's a little bit of a lie. He's almost irritated at himself for his half-second of disbelief when things didn't quite add up this morning.]

[workaphilic]

Man, woman, doesn't matter. Under the right circumstances, everyone is capable of anything.

[A pause.]

For some, those circumstances are outlandish.

[John's a better man than he is, in any case.]

[workaphilic]

Exactly why there's no point moaning about it now.

[If he thinks it enough times, maybe his mind will start agreeing with him.]

[workaphilic]

[clipped:]

Oh well. Seems you'll have to make do from now on.

[the_effect_she_has]

Right. No moaning, no pity. This is what life is.

[If she does the same, then maybe she can get back to some semblance of life.]

[onlyanapple]

Oh come on now, no need to be like that. I'm sure you'll find someone else to irritate on a regular basis.