“John, really.” Somehow, Sherlock managed to look even more arrogant in that moment.
John re-set the zoom on his phone’s camera and framed Sherlock’s face in a head-on shot.
“No, listen, Sherlock. You’re the one complaining about the hat photo on the website; you’re the one who has to stand still for five bloody seconds.”
A small crease appeared above the bridge of Sherlock’s nose. “It matters to you that I dislike that photo?”
John zoomed in again. “Of course it matters. And this landscape looks… I don’t know… beautiful and mysterious and dangerous.” He snapped his mouth shut before he uttered the words just like you.
Bloody schoolgirl crush, John berated himself silently. Get it together, Watson.
Sherlock’s brows creased even more.
Shit. He can tell. He knows.
“Why don’t you, ah, sit a bit on that outcropping right there. I’ll get a wider shot.”
“Like this?” Sherlock asked, leaning back and drawing one knee up slightly, resting his hand on his thigh.
His face was calm, beautiful, knowing.
Accepting.
“Um, yeah. I think that’ll work just like that.” John rasped before clearing his throat.
Damn him.
***
When the tragedy occurred, John found that he couldn’t think. Couldn’t think of anything for hours or days at a time.
The phone buzzed or rang or lit up - friends calling to offer condolences, or people checking in to see if there was anything they could do.
None of it registered in John’s mind. He just sat, barefoot, not thinking.
Actually, that was easier than what came next.
After Lestrade nearly broke down the door, John agreed to start answering his phone (or at least replying to texts now and again).
That’s when John went through his phone’s call history.
And text message history.
When he brought up the last text from Sherlock, John convulsed momentarily, not sure if he might cry out or vomit. This was the last one. The last one he’d ever get, now.
In a moment of anger and panic and rage, he squeezed the phone, pressing a jumble of keys and commands at once, and then threw the damned thing across the room.
Fuck.
Bloody hell.
Fucking bastard.
He sat, trembling, for a few more moments.
When John had the strength to get up and retrieve the phone again, he saw that the photo gallery was open.
There, on the small screen, were the photos he’d taken at Dartmoor.
There, on Sherlock’s face, an expression of quiet understanding.
He knew.
He knew the whole time, and still I never told him.
Now I never will.
And that’s when, finally, John allowed himself to weep.
(Source: cumberbatch-earth, via belovedmuerto)
