Summary: Often, we never notice small details. But for the man that observes all, it's simply child's play.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything from Sherlock and make no profit.
This is going to be a series of drabbles. Because of that, it is marked complete but I will add new shorts every now and then. So, if you like it, follow it and there will be more to see. As always, thanks guys. You're amazing.
A/N: Technically, it's always complete because one chapter doesn't have any real correlation to the next. Keep on the look out for more because I'll probably be adding some.
Before the fall, there was a certain way that Dr. John Watson walked. No, it was more of a saunter really. A smooth bounce in his step and sway to his body. His shoulders were always pulled back, chin high, and arms swinging in their usual army style. He was practically glowing as he made his way down the town streets.
It always started with his right foot. Stretching out and pulling the rest of him along until it was time to move again. His left had been a bit more hesitant from his psychosomatic limp at the start, but the confidence was back and his left was meeting his right half way.
When he walked, it was art. His clothing moved around his form like rippling waves and his shoes padded even, soft tapping noises on the ground. It was the walk of a man who had seen war and survived, who had faced death and laughed. It was a gliding grace of rough elegance and accomplished power.
After the fall, there was a new way Dr. John Watson walked. It was more of a dead movement. There was no emotion or raw power behind it. His right foot still led, but his left dragged behind. The cane was back as well. The rubber end made a muted clank on the ground, followed by the sound of his scuffling feet.
He was art that had crashed and burned. The glow he had once dulled to an ashen grey. There was no noticing him on the street. He fell in among the blank, strange faces.
His shoulders were hunched over now, back slouching as he moved. His chin was held even with the ground only to see where he was going. When the rubber end would slap the pavement, he still flinched. He didn't enjoy the sound one bit.
It reminded him of the pain, not only what he had seen in war, but what he had lost after it. He had survived with his life, only to lose his heart.
Only to lose Sherlock Holmes.
Feel free to give me another idea for a detail to write about in the comments. Next is going to be John's smile. Thanks.