Ditzy's 365 Days of Prompts
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It's been six months. Six months, three weeks, four days and…two hours. Give or take five minutes. Not that he's counting.
He forgets sometimes. Turns his head to comment, to share some passing thought, some absurdity only Sherlock would find half entertaining—and then he remembers.
The ledge. The phone call. The blood on the sidewalk.
The great and terrible absence of orbit.
Sherlock was the axis.
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John Watson, six months after the fall, has lost his orbit.
Series
- Part 1 of Ditzy's 365 Days of Prompts
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"Izzy."
He hears it like it's coming through the depths of the ocean. Blurred around the edges. Familiar but soft. His spine's too stiff to turn. His neck aches…everything aches.
"Izzy," they call again, closer. Gentler. "Come to bed, darling."
Bonnet.
He has the urge to say something. Snarl, maybe. Snap back with you're not my captain, Bonnet. But the words feel like gravel in his throat. Dry and grating.
There's another set of footsteps behind him. They are heavier, hard soled boots. Larger. Something he would know in his sleep.
A hand lands on his shoulder—solid, but not heavy.
"Go on, mate," Edward murmurs. "Do as you're told. He is your captain after all."
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Or: Izzy's sick, stubborn, and his captains won't let him do it alone.
Series
- Part 2 of Ditzy's 365 Days of Prompts