[ luckily for Sherlock, he's not looking for an explanation just yet. he is, first and foremost, struck by the staggering improbability and now reality of the voice in his ear. back. it's Sherlock, it's definitely Sherlock— he's back.
shock washes through him, a wave. followed by glee, by muffled panic, by when and why and oh my God, he's back. ]
Sherlock.
[ repeating himself now, Sherlock knows his own bloody name, John, but it's— it's incredible. it's incredible. he never thought - he always thought - ]
[ good. both of those are good. and he doesn't know for certain to what extent either is true, but he doesn't have it in him to be worried yet. bordering on frantic, but not worried. the call doesn't end and John's grateful for that, too
an update while they've got the time: ]
It's been six months.
[ it's not angry. John wasn't expecting to see Sherlock here again, not ever— it's been six months, that's all. ]
[It's faint, distracted, followed by a pause and a rustling of fabric. Inaudible is the pressing of skin against skin, the furrowing of his brow and the pressure he applies to the bridge of his nose. He shakes his head.]
No.
[An hour. A year. It's all tangled up. Time got lost, and so did he.]
[ more than long enough. maybe if he'd gone home it might even have been long enough to see Sherlock back.
John finds a bench out front of the hospital building, sits himself down, stares at the old passing cars as they collect and drop off and holds the phone firmly to his ear. ]
Do you remember? [ everything. this place, the people. ]
[ it's the only thing he can think to do to keep himself still: low level gossip, filling time by filling in time. his voice is less tight than it was, less constricted with haste to be talking about something ordinary while waiting for the extraordinary. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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shock washes through him, a wave. followed by glee, by muffled panic, by when and why and oh my God, he's back. ]
Sherlock.
[ repeating himself now, Sherlock knows his own bloody name, John, but it's— it's incredible. it's incredible. he never thought - he always thought - ]
Where are you?
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[Which is not helpful, but maybe he doesn't want it to be. The question is tiresome, too tiresome for a moment like this. A better one:]
Where should I be?
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[Ha. Ha.]
Be there soon.
[And yet he doesn't hang up, reluctant to sever the connection just yet.]
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[ good. both of those are good. and he doesn't know for certain to what extent either is true, but he doesn't have it in him to be worried yet. bordering on frantic, but not worried. the call doesn't end and John's grateful for that, too
an update while they've got the time: ]
It's been six months.
[ it's not angry. John wasn't expecting to see Sherlock here again, not ever— it's been six months, that's all. ]
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[It's faint, distracted, followed by a pause and a rustling of fabric. Inaudible is the pressing of skin against skin, the furrowing of his brow and the pressure he applies to the bridge of his nose. He shakes his head.]
No.
[An hour. A year. It's all tangled up. Time got lost, and so did he.]
Not long.
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[ more than long enough. maybe if he'd gone home it might even have been long enough to see Sherlock back.
John finds a bench out front of the hospital building, sits himself down, stares at the old passing cars as they collect and drop off and holds the phone firmly to his ear. ]
Do you remember? [ everything. this place, the people. ]
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[More or less. But then at the moment he finds himself remembering quite a few things that didn't actually happen.]
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[ it's the only thing he can think to do to keep himself still: low level gossip, filling time by filling in time. his voice is less tight than it was, less constricted with haste to be talking about something ordinary while waiting for the extraordinary. ]