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One more miracle
Jan. 13th, 2014 08:48 pmJohn doesn't take taxis much these days.
It had always been a little ridiculous in retrospect, the way he and Sherlock had taken London cabs everywhere. London born and bred though he might be, John had only ever stepped into one of those sleek black Fairways once or twice before meeting Sherlock. Black cabs were for tourists, toffs, and Stephen Fry. And for Sherlock Holmes, apparently, racing off on yet another adventure.
Now, John can barely look at them without flinching.
Instead, he is re-acquainting himself with the Tube - with the grime, and the press of people, and those bloody obnoxious Oyster cards that never sodding worked properly. John had had a day of it, too - a visit with Harry (never pleasant), a drink with Greg (in a faint hope of getting the Detective Inspector off his back), some very important mindless browsing to do near Picadilly in order to avoid the job interview he was supposed to be sitting in across town (his therapist would probably ask how it went, so he’d need an excuse for missing the interview by next Thursday).
At Shepard’s Bush tube station, John nudges his way through the rush hour crowd, longing for a real drink and a dreamless sleep in his new, still-bare flat. Without needing to look, he runs his Oyster card against the turnstile reader, only to have an angry beep jolt him out of his mindless march. Insufficient funds, the turnstile’s small screen informs him. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” he mutters, and tries again. The beep repeats, and John kicks the barrier with all his might.
A disgruntled line is forming behind him. John tries his card again, to no avail.
It had always been a little ridiculous in retrospect, the way he and Sherlock had taken London cabs everywhere. London born and bred though he might be, John had only ever stepped into one of those sleek black Fairways once or twice before meeting Sherlock. Black cabs were for tourists, toffs, and Stephen Fry. And for Sherlock Holmes, apparently, racing off on yet another adventure.
Now, John can barely look at them without flinching.
Instead, he is re-acquainting himself with the Tube - with the grime, and the press of people, and those bloody obnoxious Oyster cards that never sodding worked properly. John had had a day of it, too - a visit with Harry (never pleasant), a drink with Greg (in a faint hope of getting the Detective Inspector off his back), some very important mindless browsing to do near Picadilly in order to avoid the job interview he was supposed to be sitting in across town (his therapist would probably ask how it went, so he’d need an excuse for missing the interview by next Thursday).
At Shepard’s Bush tube station, John nudges his way through the rush hour crowd, longing for a real drink and a dreamless sleep in his new, still-bare flat. Without needing to look, he runs his Oyster card against the turnstile reader, only to have an angry beep jolt him out of his mindless march. Insufficient funds, the turnstile’s small screen informs him. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” he mutters, and tries again. The beep repeats, and John kicks the barrier with all his might.
A disgruntled line is forming behind him. John tries his card again, to no avail.
