John puts his bags down inside the flat and grins broadly.
“Hello, sexy husband. I’ve missed you.”
On further inspection, Sherlock looks exhausted and slightly ruffled. His curls are a mess, the front of his grey shirt is full of dark, wet stains, (from tears?) and his frown is deep.
“John.”
Sherlock’s voice sounds relieved but also vexed.
“Is everything alright with our Rosebud upstairs?”
That frown only appears when something’s amiss with their daughter, or when the detective is deeply engrossed in a case. Having been in regular contact with his husband during his stay in Glasgow, John knows the case got solved this very morning.
“She’s fine. No thanks to Molly Hooper, mind you!”
“Molly? What on earth is wrong with – “
“We have to find someone else to look after Rosie when Hudders is unavailable, John.”
“Sherlock, darling, what are you on about? Molly adores Ro, and vice versa.”
“That is neither her nor there. You weren’t here to witness…”
Sherlock trails off and pinches the bridge of his nose. John’s stomach churns from worry and concern, and he makes his way over to where Sherlock is sitting. He kneels in front of him, grabbing his hands and kisses the knuckles.
“Tell me,” he urges softly.
Before Sherlock can open his mouth, a tiny voice is calling from the top of the stairs.
“Papa. They’re still here.”
John’s heart clenches when he hears his daughters tear-filled voice.
“I’ll go, Sherlock,” he says and kisses his forehead before making his way upstairs.
“Daddy!”
Rosie’s happiness at seeing him, fills John’s chest with love for this little girl who lights up his and Sherlock’s life on a daily basis.
“Rosebud, what’s the matter? You’re supposed to sleep at this hour.”
Her happy expression changes immediately. Tears stream down her flushed cheeks and her bottom lip quivers.
John scoops her up in his arms with more effort than last month. At the age of six, Rosamund Watson-Holmes is heavier than she looks.
“She inherited your sturdy bones.”
Sherlock’s voice in his mind is teasing, and John shakes his head to tend to the matter at hand.
When Rosie is safely back in her bed, she pleads for John to take a very good look under her bed and in her wardrobe.
“There are monsters,” she whispers, her eyes wide with both excitement and fear.
“Sweetheart, there are no such thing as monsters. Not for real.”
“I can hear and see them!” his stubborn daughter insists, so John searches the room, and comes up emptyhanded.
“Not a monster in sight!” he proclaims triumphantly.
Rosie looks sceptically at him, but her eyelids are getting heavier by the second, and when John wraps the duvet around her and hums the tunes of a lullaby he used to sing when she was smaller, she finally drifts off.
***
“So, what’s this nonsense about Molly?” John asks when he joins Sherlock on the sofa some minutes later.
Sherlock makes himself comfortable with his head in John’s lap, and John cards his fingers through the silky curls relishing the proximity.
“Molly picked Rosie up at school today since I had to help Gerard with closing the case. Apparently, our dear friend took it upon herself to educate our precious daughter by reading an illustrated edition of Frankenstein to her. And no, not a child-friendly copy.”
“I see. Molly’s sense of humour is a bit morbid, but so is ours.”
“Quite, but the difference is that we are able to censure the grisly bits where Rosie is concerned. Molly clearly has no boundaries in that department,” Sherlock huffs.
“True. Her awkwardness in social situations is legendary, which most likely has to do with her job. Being surrounded by dead people all day long – “
“Oh, hello, have we met? I deal with corpses just as regularly as Molly.”
“You do, my love, but there’s a difference. Who waits for her when she gets home? A cat. Have you ever heard of friends other than us?”
“I suppose not.”
“She’s lonely, Sherlock, and I won’t have any part in removing Ro from her life. It will destroy her, not to mention our daughter. She’s her godmother after all. I’ll have a talk with her, alright?”
“Fine,” Sherlock replies, though it’s clear that he needs more convincing, and John gets an idea.
***
“What are you doing?” Rosie asks Sherlock when she comes back from school the following day.
Sherlock is wearing his safety goggles and the thick rubber gloves he uses on his more toxic experiments. Said experiments are normally performed inside 221C these days, but this charade is all for Rosie’s benefit.
“I have created an anti-monster spray,” Sherlock declares and retrieves a spray bottle from the kitchen table.
Rosie’s eyes go wide with surprise, and when Sherlock has removed his gloves and goggles, she launches herself at him and hugs him tightly.
“You are the best!” she exclaims and kisses his cheek.
“It was actually Daddy’s idea,” Sherlock says softly and cradles her face with his right hand.
“Really? That’s brilliant!”
“Did someone call my name?” John asks from the doorway.
Sherlock snorts, but his fond smile doesn’t fool John.
***
That night, Rosie’s room gets a few well-placed sprays of the concoction Sherlock made, which smells like freshly cut grass and a hint of honey.
“Are they gone now?” Rosie asks before Sherlock turns out the light.
“Oh, yes,” Sherlock assures her.
“Most definitely,” John concurs. “No one can withstand Papa’s chemical magic. Sweet dreams, Rosebud.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes at him, but he makes sure only John sees it.
Scott opens the door barely an inch, just enough to peer down the corridor. He does it as slowly as he can manage, no fast movements to attract attention, and practically holds his breath while he watches. He doesn’t think their hearing is that sensitive, but after the last couple of hours, he’s taking no chances.
There’s nothing. The only movement is the dance of shadows across the floor from the window at the end, from the last few minutes of the sunset. No sound, except the feint sound of crashing waves. They couldn’t usually hear the ocean from inside the house, but with so many broken windows... the smell of salt water permeated the air, highlighting – not masking – the muggy odour of blood splashed across the walls.
No clack of clawed feet across the floorboards, no snouts snuffling for their scent, no ruffle of (what he still assumed to be fathers) in the shadows.
Satisfied for now, Scott closes the door as carefully as he’d opened it, and softly creeps back across the room to the other side of the bed where he’d deposited John on the floor.
His brother has recovered a little colour in the minutes Scott had been watching the corridor: his cheeks no longer ashen, though still a little pale. There’s a blanket as a new make-shift bandage around his waist, and John’s cushioned his injured leg on a pillow. But there was nothing in here that would make a decent splint – if they have to run again, it will be bad. Really bad. John’s been barely upright since he got back, and now with a broken leg it would not be so much a run as a limping shamble.
“Are they gone?” John whispers as Scott drops to the floor beside him, to sit shoulder to shoulder.
Wiping sweat and dirt off his face with the back of his hand, Scott nods. “I think so. No sign.” But he speaks as lowly as John. Just in case.
thank you for the prompt @flashfictionfridayofficial
This is a spiritual successor (and maybe actual successor if I ever write the whole thing one day) to this:
Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial using the prompt FFF349 - are they gone and @fluffbruary prompt for March 14 : rain | vines | water. This is an alternate universe. Nothing here happened in the story. The opening lines appeared on the narrative but it is only the premise.
—
Fandom: Medalist (anime and manga)
Characters: Jun Yodaka, Tsukasa Akeuraji, Schinichiro Sonidori, mentions of Hikaru Kamisaki, Inori Yuitsuka, Yudai Jakuzure and Rioh Sonidori, a couple of OCs
Word count: 870
ALL lies.
I’ve grown bored with them. I thought her coach was interesting…
What a way to tell his ward Hikaru that he didn’t care a thing about Tsukasa Akeuraji at all. Did Tsukasa and Inori have become insignificant? So he stopped to think about him, which was useless, when he knew damn well that fate would interrupt his plans. All the freaking time.
He found himself hiding in the guest room with an open window, a burning cigarette on his left fingers, smoking the last pack as if there was no tomorrow. His eyes travelled to the empty shelves. Once he used this room five years after his retirement, when he found himself sitting in his damaged flat. The real estate demanded a compensation which was resolved quickly. Such was the life of his love-hate affair with his talent. He always had people to manage his day-to-day’s business, simple tasks normal people would do.
Puffing the cigarette, ashes fell on the windowsill that he quickly disposed outside by scooping it out with his fingers.
Today was Shinichiro‘s 37th birthday. A few of his friends, mostly from the skating world, were in the living room celebrating there right now. Some he didn’t know or couldn’t remember. It was natural that Tsukasa Akeuraji was invited too with the insistence of Shinichiro’s son, Rioh, who grew very fond of the younger coach.
Jun didn’t want to think about him, but Tsukasa’s voice, energetic and loud, dominated the house when he was speaking. Jun wanted to leave. Not because of Tsukasa, mind. But his aversion to crowds grew significantly throughout the years. He asked himself what he was doing there when the door suddenly swung open.
A tall figure with orange-blonde hair stepped in, holding his head, rubbing it. His stance was not steady. Jun couldn’t make out of the sound he heard. Was the man crying or laughing?
“What an idiot…” he murmured. The only words that were comprehensible to his ears then the man wobbled.
Jun possessed a good reflex when breaking a fall. He caught Tsukasa just in time before he hit the floor.
He didn’t hurt himself, did he? He needed some water.
Using his lap as Tsukasa’s pillow he inspected any injury on his head and lower limbs, except for his right hand that was swollen. Just when he looked back to his face, the man lying on his thighs gazed at him with his enormous eyes. That was when Jun noticed the beauty mark, the mole under his right eye. Tsukasa quickly moved away from him. Still unsteady, but more awake.
They heard a pair of steps walking, then several taps on the door.
“Coach Akeuraji, are you all right?”
Jun stood up and opened the door slightly, wary of others who could hear.
“Schinichiro…”
Is the party over?
“Oh, Jun, you are also here? I suspected that Coach Akeuraji was in the room… after he… after they …”
“I am here,” Tsukasa answered raising his left hand. He was seated now leaning on the mattress.
“Coach Futaba and Mr. Smith thought you could hold your liquor. Coach Jakuzure gave them a dressing down.”
“Are they gone?” Tsukasa asked.
“Yes. They left already. I am… apologies, Coach Akeuraji. I didn’t anticipate that there was a malice intent on their part.”
“What happened, Schinichiro?”
Tsukasa answered him instead.
“We were drinking. Well, I had a non-alcoholic beverage with me. I told them that alcohol is not an option for me. They took it as a joke. To appease them, I drank a little wine. One of them said something about... oh well, you,” he glanced at Jun then sighed. He continued as he looked down on the floor avoiding Jun’s face this time. “I lost my control and hit one of them on the face. I didn’t want it to escalate so I hid here… I didn’t know that you were here.”
“Oh, they said something about me…” was all Jun could say.
“The reason you ran away from skating… it made me angry.” Tsukasa furrowed his eyes.
Jun looked at Coach Sonidori asking for guidance. Why would Tsukasa Akeuraji defend him after all those instances where he mocked his student, Inori Yuitsuka, taunting him to ditch her and instead come back to ice skating because Tsukasa could?
“I don’t think I have anything to add,” the senior coach said, smiling. He left the two men in the guest room.
Tsukasa leaned his head on his arms. Jun touched his neck, a sign of his insecurity. He sat next to the other man.
Silence reign in until Tsukasa raised his head.
“Mr. Yodaka… you see…”
“Akeuraji… I want to know…”
“Ah, please, you go first.”
“No, you go first, please…”
“Ahhh, this is so awkward…” Tsukasa rubbed his face. Redness all over it and it was not due to alcohol anymore. He was as sober as he was when he arrived to the Sonidori residence.
“I agree.” His back found the mattress so he leaned on it.
“I still hate you, you know?” Tsukasa said, with his right eye open covering the other one with his arm. His mole looked like a star twinkling.
“Tell me all about it. We have time in the world.”
