quick speedpaint ‘cause this has been in my head for ages. phone depicted above is Sherlock’s, not John’s.
And then, on good days (when he can stand to think about him and all the good memories they had), John calls Sherlock’s cell just to hear his voice before he leaves a voicemail. It’s a ridiculous sounding message, but so inherently Sherlock, spoken in that bored and exasperated tone John knew too well: “Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. Don’t bother leaving a message if it isn’t pertinent to a case.”
And, sometimes, hearing his voice would be enough for John. Enough to make him smile and laugh, and hang up and go about with his day.
Sometimes, though, he’d have to leave a voicemail. Just a “Hey, Sherlock, I’m not going to be at the flat tonight, just wanted to let you know” or even “Mrs. Hudson said you shot her wall again. I’ll let you take care of it this time.”
And, just once, years after Sherlock’s death, he said,
“I love you.”
Once was enough.
OMG UGLIEST CRYING
John stops blogging. He can’t see the point of it; nothing ever happens to him anymore - he’s just staying alive. But the good days begin to outnumber the bad ones through sheer bloody-minded placidity, and John fills the inbox of Sherlock’s phone with inane little messages and expects nothing back. With: “How many times can I get into a row with the chip and pin machine before they ban me? -JW”, or “Triple murder in the papers today. You’d have loved it. -JW”, or simply “Bloody raining again. -JW” - hundreds of texts about everything and nothing at the same time. And John stops blogging. But he never stops talking about his day.
JFC AS IF THE WOUND ISN’T FRESH ALREADY!
why are you doing this to me
all my brainings are crying mushes now
no why did you type any of that
And then one day, while John is in Tesco ambling around with a half empty basket, the phone, Sherlock’s phone buzzes inside his pocket. He stops dead, eyes widening and pulls it out. Before looking he stills himself and reminds himself that it’s probably just a wrong number or a mistake of some kind, maybe even a message he sent himself that has been delayed for some reason, it happens.
He sighs and turns the phone over, running his fingers over it like it’s some kind of precious object. The screen is lit, telling him there’s a new message, he pushes the button to open it.
Suddenly stiff fingers drop the shopping basket, sending it contents scattering across the vinyl floor. The phone slips from his other hand, bouncing on the hard surface and the screen cracks as once heavy feet are suddenly light in their hurried flight from the store.
The phone lies broken but still on and readable, the message reads *I’m sorry John, come home and don’t forget the milk. -SH*