out on out. part 2.

Although he requested 10 days’ leave in the wake of Sherlock’s funeral, loss of close relative, he shows up at work on the second day -- around noon, when everyone (Davies included) is heading for mess and John catches up to him in civies, sitting down with him at a table indoors, though he doesn’t eat. Davies looks him over, visibly concerned.

“Word’s out that you lost close family,” he says finally.

“Partner,” John replies.

“Oh,” Davies says. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” is all John can muster in terms of confirmation.


-*-


He doesn’t tell Davies that it’s Sherlock, doesn’t blow Sherlock’s cover, hasn’t blown it throughout the past two years, won’t be blowing it now, but neither does the man ask. He nods, eats his foot, gets up and turns to John before leaving, a serious expression on his face.

“I’d offer you to stay with me and the mrs while you get sorted, but I don’t get the feeling that’s what you need.”

“Right,” John says, “it’s not, but thank you.”

“They have singles available at the billet right now, though,” continues Davies then, “rank-wise, you should qualify.”


-*-


The sergeant who oversees the billet is, understandably, a bit hesitant, looking John up and down once with a “the guys staying here are rarely older than 20, sir.”

“It’s okay, I’m only staying for a couple of weeks. No more than a month.”

“Yes, sir, but --”

“But what, Sergeant?”

“Nothing, it’s just -- none of the rooms come with a separate bathroom, sir, you’ll have to shower with the privates.”

For the first time in what feels like forever, though it can logically only be five or so days, John laughs, telling the sergeant that they won’t be sporting anything I haven’t seen before and asking to see the room.


-*-


It’s the last room at the end of the hallway. The room next to it is also available, but due to the angling of the opposite building (Block K), from this one he can see mess from the window. The comings and goings of the soldiers. Life in the barracks.

Around the clock.

He glances from the metal frame bed that will probably do horrible things for his back, to the sink near the other end, opposite a big closet and that’s it in terms of furniture -- that’s what they’ve shoved into the 70 square feet which is the rough size of the room.

“I’ll take it,” he tells the sergeant.


-*-


Collecting his clothes from Baker Street, he hangs it in the closet at the billet, listening to a hoard of privates returning to the dormitories after the day’s drills.

The bells at mess sound half an hour later.


-*-


It’s four in the morning. He hasn’t slept, not a wink.

He’s sitting on the windowsill, legs bent to his chest and a cup of cheap coffee from the vending machine down the hallway next to him. By now, it’s gone cold, not really worth much anymore, but he can’t be bothered to get up and flush it down the sink. A lot of things are like that, aren’t they?

He thinks about Sherlock for a moment, just a moment. Recalling the sound of his voice, deep and broken in places. Most of him was -- broken in places. He remembers the weight of him on his chest, the feeling of his head resting near his collarbone, his shaved scalp a scratch of stubble against his face, if he bent his neck and pressed against the top of his head. He remembers their breathing, contrasting, Sherlock inhaling when John exhaled, either in perfect sync or in perfect opposition, either one would be typically them. Often enough, they’ve been both at once. Alike and different. He remembers the silence, complete and overwhelming, when the other man had stopped breathing, altogether.

Outside, there’s a change of guard, the lights at Block K dimming and blinking as people pass by in the approaching dawn. One moment they’re a dark silhouette with gold for backdrop, the next they’re gone.

John has seen countless of people die, he’s lost soldiers and friends, good men -- but like the very bad Catholic he is, he’s never questioned what death is really like, on the other side of it -- that he’s got no stakes in. Mind you, it’s always looked like relief to him, from a caretaking perspective.

Now he thinks it looks like endings, no matter how much he bloody well angles his head.

Around zero five hundred thirty when the privates are woken up, he gets off the windowsill finally, leaving the coffee behind. It won’t exactly get any colder, it won’t decompose, it’s not a dead body. Crossing the room, he runs a tired hand up his neck where -- at some point during the night, he’s managed to work up a serious kink.

Might be due to all the angles from which he’s been staring at death, yes? Yes.

No.