who has to know?
2:43 AM. 2:44 AM. 2:45 AM. he takes a swig; swish, swash, swish, swallow. 2:46 AM. 2:47 AM. the seconds tick. he would’ve hated this any other day, but today? it’s welcomingly monotonous. june 20th - four days he’s sat here and stared at his yellowed windows. four days he hasn’t cried, four days he’s wallowed in his own misery and thought ‘why’.
it’s not even enough that they didn’t let him see the body (he wasn’t called in to ID it either; mycroft was, and he stalked in with the usual grim expression and pronounced him lifeless - still, hardened eyes threatening anyone who dared speak). all the time they praised him for his courage and quick-thinking, he stood stock still and nodded gracefully, saying not a single word (he didn’t agree).
2:47 AM. 2:48 AM. 2:49 AM. the droning of the clock (which He often said drove Him mad - tiny snippets whispered in the wee hours of a chilly london morning better spent under covers warmed by another body) - a welcome respite from his thoughts.
thoughts, thoughts, traitorous thoughts. thoughts like, i could’ve told him everything; i could’ve told him that a few nights meant more than just ‘i-can’t-keep-a-girlfriend-oh-surprise!-here-you-are-and-wanting-to-have-sex-how-convenient’; thoughts like ‘he thought he was so brilliant, so unloved’; thoughts like ‘i wonder if he even thought of me in his last moments; thoughts like ‘i
hate long for miss love (?) feel for him so much more than i ever thought i could another person.’
and above all, he despairs of himself - all he could’ve said and done, and all the times he yelled and shouted hurtful words instead of soothing praises - all the times he chose bitterness for want of appreciation.
2:50 AM. 2:51 AM. 2:52 AM. the phone rings; he picks up, despite wishing to just let it go on (it hurts his head at such hours).
“hellllooo?” his voice sounds slurred - too slurred?
it’s just lestrade, phoning up to check on him - he’s started doing that daily and in a way, he’s grateful because it means he hasn’t been forgotten, that someone still cares. as he hangs up, he notices the disappointed huff of breath when he admits hazily, that he’s not quite sure exactly how many vodkas he’s had tonight (not that it matters now, though, he adds quickly).
he can hear the tenants on the other side of the building shuffling around - having sex, he assumes by the resounding crashes and thumps.
quiet thoughts, tiny thoughts - pinprickles of cerise and tainted white - trickle into the back of his eyes - he squeezes them shut, pushing calloused fingers against drowsy-weary eyelids. glazed memories of a sweat-slicked lithe body against his, memories of a rumbling jaguar and memories of morning-afters spent alone flooded back with each sound.
stopstopstopstopstop2:59AM. 3:00 AM. chime, chime, chime.
ten thousand things he could’ve said, and the one thing he did.
AU: Sherlock and Anderson have hate!sex. Part two to (x).
Tomorrow’s headline: world’s only consulting detective has dinosaur kink.