Dr John H. Watson. (psychosomatic) wrote in spinningcompass, @ 2013-01-15 22:28:00 |
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Entry tags: | !open, !plot |
Who? John Watson & OPEN.
Where? The beach.
When? Around dusk, Tuesday.
What? Anniversaries, anxieties, loneliness- John has many feels.
Rating? Moderate- some distress, probably language, etc.
Status? Open, ongoing.
John really shouldn't have been surprised that this would have happened so soon after their wedding. If the last year had taught him anything, it was that he wasn't allowed happiness- not just him, but it was in the nature of such things- the train, now the island. Happiness was like taunting it, and it always retaliated.
The first day had been pure panic. Sherlock always replied to his texts, always. Often, John found himself with hourly updates on his partner's location, whether he wanted to know or not. And then he'd started to realise that other people were missing as well, and he'd started to fear the worst- or close to the worst. That he'd been sent home. Not dead, he didn't dare think dead- but sent home. The first night alone had been agony. He hadn't slept. He couldn't.
Then there was the search party, turning up nothing, but at least it gave him a purpose. And there were the girls who said that the missing people were still on the island, just hidden from them- which was good, of course it was, but it scared him.
And now, apparently it was January 15th, a date that would be forever burnt into his memory. The day he'd lost Sherlock, a year ago now- although, for him in fact it was a few months over a year, that was the problem of a time-travelling train, it was hard to keep track. But now the date was there, and Sherlock wasn't there, and all John could do was run his thumb along his wedding ring like a comfort blanket, and try to keep positive.
He sat on the beach, just outside their honeymoon accommodation, and looked out at the ocean. It was just dark enough to allow the moonlight to start dancing over the waves. More than anything, he just wanted to give up and cry, but he felt strangely hollow. Annie was dead. Properly dead. And he couldn't bear to think about what was happening to Sherlock at that very moment, and he couldn't find him. If only it was the other way around- Sherlock would always find him. He felt completely useless. He felt helpless. He wanted his husband home.