What If?
Shrinking Universe
I moped around the flat for much of my time for the next few months. Every night I would stare out of the window at the darkening sky when I thought no one was watching and just hope. Only when I actually caught him staring at me with those eyes, like scattered stars across some unknown galaxy, did I realise that I did it with out thinking. I didn't go out much. I'd tried to make friends, get on with life. But my small circle of friends didn't extend much further than Sherlock, John and the rather timid yet well meaning Molly Hooper. We weren't the best of friends, but we talked. She was nice enough, but I preferred the company of John, and I had to admit that Sherlock's quiet yet intelligent nature had grown on me.
Most nights I would sit with him and John reading books, discussing cases. I usually didn't delve that much into cases, it was Sherlock and John's job, not mine. I was one of the ones aware, but not involved, on the outside like Mrs Hudson and Molly. Of an evening, John eventually got bored or much too tired, either falling asleep and nearly falling out of his armchair or mumbling his farewell and shuffling off to bed. I took another cursory glance at the window.
"Stop it, Pond." Sherlock sighed, his eyes not leaving the fireplace as he stared into it. "Even when the curtains are shut you stare at them instead. He's not coming back."
"It's not him I miss." I mumbled, not listening to his protests and still staring out into the dark streets with their bright lights, shining like fire flies in the distance. I was such a long way from home. But this was all so familiar. My mind wandered back to home, Leadworth in all it's boring safety and how I'd longed to escape it. But not like this. I wanted my house, my pokey little house in the pokey little village where nothing happened in every one's grey little lives. Here I had slowly accumulated a grey little life, but it was different, odd, it had strange rules that I didn't want to hurt me so. I curled up in the chair, sighing and letting myself become miserable again.
"Who?" he asked, and his eyes met mine. He asked like he cared, which was unusual. I paused for a moment, thinking about it, and then a single word left my thoughts almost as if it escaped on it's own.
"Rory."
"Are you that concerned, and he's that important, that if I told you I'd looked him up already you'd be angry at me?" he muttered, staring back at the fireplace. My eyes widening, I stared at him for a good minute before being able to talk.
"You what? You know about him, don't you? Why didn't you tell me?" I asked, and the quiet resumed. I could feel anger boiling up inside, but I didn't want to wake John so kept my voice hushed. Not once did he look at me as he spoke.
"As I found out more I knew you wouldn't want to know."
The words made me feel a mixture of anger and wanting to throw up. I imagined the worst. Dead or non existent. As was, it seemed, most of my life. I may as well have not existed anywhere but this flat and at work. I lived in constant fear of meeting myself or some one I knew. Some one who didn't know me, or some one who knew me but knew me differently in this backward universe where fictional characters were real and I couldn't step much past my own front door with out pining for The Doctor.
I thought about it, that feeling for a minute. That need for some one more intelligent than myself to guide me and help me, teach me and just keep me company before I went mad, left with my own mundane little thoughts. I lived in a little blue box that was my own mind, I'd been living there for a long time and I wanted out. I'd had six months of a boring grey little life somewhere that should have been full of adventure and discovery. The possibility that there was some one I knew here, or at least a version of them I could know existed. It made me feel some warped sense of hope.
"Where is he?" I said quietly.
"London. He's a doctor." He answered, his voice sounded hollow as he uttered the words. He didn't like this. He didn't like telling me what I didn't want to hear.
"How did you find him?"
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, a frustrated sigh escaping before he muttered,
"I know people... People that know him."
He was skipping over things. I needed to know. Just stop being so damn cryptic Sherlock.
"Sherlock, just tell me!" I hissed, digging my nails into the arm of the chair. A sense of sickening dread washed over me as I waited for him to speak.
"He works at Bart's and recently became romantically involved with Molly Hooper!" he hissed back, his voice retreating into a lower, more hushed tone as the words tumbled out. I just sat, staring at him. "I'm sorry." he muttered, closing his eyes and cutting off the conversation.
I don't know what troubled me more. The fact that Molly was "involved" with Rory, the one person I had from my old life that I recognised, maybe still had feelings for, dating Molly Hooper. Molly bloody Hooper. Or that Sherlock had been so hesitant to tell me. That he had apologised. My brain wouldn't work, it didn't know where to turn. I sat there staring at the fireplace, the flames slowly dying away. Sighing to myself, I crawled onto my now permanent make shift bed, a.k.a. the sofa, and wallowed in my own misery until I fell asleep.
Most nights I would sit with him and John reading books, discussing cases. I usually didn't delve that much into cases, it was Sherlock and John's job, not mine. I was one of the ones aware, but not involved, on the outside like Mrs Hudson and Molly. Of an evening, John eventually got bored or much too tired, either falling asleep and nearly falling out of his armchair or mumbling his farewell and shuffling off to bed. I took another cursory glance at the window.
"Stop it, Pond." Sherlock sighed, his eyes not leaving the fireplace as he stared into it. "Even when the curtains are shut you stare at them instead. He's not coming back."
"It's not him I miss." I mumbled, not listening to his protests and still staring out into the dark streets with their bright lights, shining like fire flies in the distance. I was such a long way from home. But this was all so familiar. My mind wandered back to home, Leadworth in all it's boring safety and how I'd longed to escape it. But not like this. I wanted my house, my pokey little house in the pokey little village where nothing happened in every one's grey little lives. Here I had slowly accumulated a grey little life, but it was different, odd, it had strange rules that I didn't want to hurt me so. I curled up in the chair, sighing and letting myself become miserable again.
"Who?" he asked, and his eyes met mine. He asked like he cared, which was unusual. I paused for a moment, thinking about it, and then a single word left my thoughts almost as if it escaped on it's own.
"Rory."
"Are you that concerned, and he's that important, that if I told you I'd looked him up already you'd be angry at me?" he muttered, staring back at the fireplace. My eyes widening, I stared at him for a good minute before being able to talk.
"You what? You know about him, don't you? Why didn't you tell me?" I asked, and the quiet resumed. I could feel anger boiling up inside, but I didn't want to wake John so kept my voice hushed. Not once did he look at me as he spoke.
"As I found out more I knew you wouldn't want to know."
The words made me feel a mixture of anger and wanting to throw up. I imagined the worst. Dead or non existent. As was, it seemed, most of my life. I may as well have not existed anywhere but this flat and at work. I lived in constant fear of meeting myself or some one I knew. Some one who didn't know me, or some one who knew me but knew me differently in this backward universe where fictional characters were real and I couldn't step much past my own front door with out pining for The Doctor.
I thought about it, that feeling for a minute. That need for some one more intelligent than myself to guide me and help me, teach me and just keep me company before I went mad, left with my own mundane little thoughts. I lived in a little blue box that was my own mind, I'd been living there for a long time and I wanted out. I'd had six months of a boring grey little life somewhere that should have been full of adventure and discovery. The possibility that there was some one I knew here, or at least a version of them I could know existed. It made me feel some warped sense of hope.
"Where is he?" I said quietly.
"London. He's a doctor." He answered, his voice sounded hollow as he uttered the words. He didn't like this. He didn't like telling me what I didn't want to hear.
"How did you find him?"
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, a frustrated sigh escaping before he muttered,
"I know people... People that know him."
He was skipping over things. I needed to know. Just stop being so damn cryptic Sherlock.
"Sherlock, just tell me!" I hissed, digging my nails into the arm of the chair. A sense of sickening dread washed over me as I waited for him to speak.
"He works at Bart's and recently became romantically involved with Molly Hooper!" he hissed back, his voice retreating into a lower, more hushed tone as the words tumbled out. I just sat, staring at him. "I'm sorry." he muttered, closing his eyes and cutting off the conversation.
I don't know what troubled me more. The fact that Molly was "involved" with Rory, the one person I had from my old life that I recognised, maybe still had feelings for, dating Molly Hooper. Molly bloody Hooper. Or that Sherlock had been so hesitant to tell me. That he had apologised. My brain wouldn't work, it didn't know where to turn. I sat there staring at the fireplace, the flames slowly dying away. Sighing to myself, I crawled onto my now permanent make shift bed, a.k.a. the sofa, and wallowed in my own misery until I fell asleep.