Put the violin down.....608 words. An overdone plot, but I liked it.Put the violin down..... by RainbowTart
Soft, tinkling melodic string notes tip toed their way into the living room, where John was dozing. He had fallen asleep in front of the TV again, papers stacked high around him; write ups for the case they had finished. He had been dreaming fitfully of racing through London's darkened streets, slipping on the cobblestones, past shop fronts, past restaurants from which a soft, tinkling music could be heard. As he whirled round a gloomy corner following a black trench coat as it whipped into the shadows, he came to the realisation that the music was still there.
A fluctuating melody pulled across strings that persisted in fluttering at the back of his head. Coming to, he lifted his head drowsily. The TV flickered soundlessly; perhaps he had leant on the remote- perhaps he never had the sound up. The music was drifting from the direction of Sherlock's bed room, and it appeared to have been plucked delicately from the heart if a v
SubstituteTeetering on the fine line between sleep and wake, John relinquished his worries of Sherlock's well-being, as the living proof of the man, remarkably, being capable of finding sustenance rummaged through the kitchen.Substitute by danglingdingle
Only for a few minutes, John promised himself, yawning and rubbing his eyes as he reclined in Sherlock's bed. Just for the moment. No reason to haul himself upstairs to the room which had been alarmingly vacant ever since John had moved in.
A vivid dream of half-microwaved, freshly bought pig-eyes simmered behind his lucid eyes, when a voice shook him out of the abstract.
Sleepily John rolled over, the bed wide enough to accommodate them both skin on skin.
"Hold me. Tight."
Awake now, discombobulated, John fought the urge to comply without questions and uttered them instead;
"Sherlock, I Why?" There was always a reason for the eccentrities. This would hardly be an exception.
"I'm fresh out of nicotine patches," said the man with four plasters sticking to
DisillusionedThe world seemed to be in the regular habit of testing John's patience. Often to the very limits of it, trying the prim lines until they gave away, and there was nothing left but to do something.Disillusioned by danglingdingle
Listening to Sherlock talk was one thing, but watching him talk was quite another. Every lip-bite, every flicker of tongue licking away coffee was another push, another poke, and the buckram of longanimity started to fringe rapidly, irreversibly, the unravelling creating another force altogether.
It was as if time itself had enough respect towards the last frail threads holding John together, since apparently it had slowed down to treasure the moment; Sherlock's puzzled glance seemed to be hanging tangible in the air, the movement of his hand grabbing his mug leaving a wispy path through the ether, the sound of Sherlock swallowing ringing not unlike church bells in John's ears, all in preparation for the unavoidable finale.
The tip of Sherlock's tongue appeared to one corne