I got real fuckin bored real fuckin quick
It's very quiet.
His skin is cold.
And so is the blood - and blood's not supposed to be cold, is it?
Is it?
Sherlock doesn't know.
He's tired. He goes to sleep.
***
When he wakes up, he wakes up next to his beautiful, wonderful John, and it's still very quiet.
John is cold, and Sherlock doesn't know why. Which is strange - because he usually knows everything.
When Sherlock saw blood all over their mattress, drenching it through and through, something in his brain twisted the wrong way. He can't possibly fathom why there's a hole where John's heart should be, or why he hasn't blinked in days.
***
He goes on a case with Lestrade.
"Where's John?" he asks.
"I think he's rather cross with me," Sherlock says, bending over a cold corpse. (This makes more sense to him. It's a corpse; it's cold. John is not a corpse. He should not be cold.)
Lestrade gives Sherlock a strange look. "John? Cross?"
"He hasn't spoken to me in days," Sherlock responds.
***
When Sherlock hugs John's body close to him when he comes home from work, he hears the squelch of cold, coagulated blood. He tells John that he's going to have to clean the sheets, because Sherlock doesn't know how to do the laundry, probably because laundry is just not the sort of thing Sherlock knows how to do. John declines wordlessly, so Sherlock musters the strength to call Mrs. Hudson's name.
She never replies. Sherlock is tired, after that. He goes to sleep.
***
Sherlock keeps waking up in the morning. He keeps asking John for tea. John keeps staring at him crossly, and Sherlock finally apologizes for not calling the police the first few times John was gutted in the stomach.
***
"Do you just carry on talking when I'm away?"
"I don't know. How often are you away?"