Disclaimer: I do not claim ownership of any characters, settings, or franchises used in this fanfiction. This is a non-profit, fan-made piece of writing. All I ask is that you, the reader, please leave some sort of feedback. In addition, I'd like to add that there were some errors that occurred as I was writing this chapter, so please inform me of any run-on sentences or anything like that. I apologize for the inconvenience, and I tried my best to fix all of them, but I may have missed something. Thank you.
The story of any man's life begins and ends with complete and utter solitude. John Watson, of course, knew this all too well. After all, his own story, as it was by far the most exciting and fulfilling time of his life, began with the aftermath of a war and ended with the aftermath of his best friend.
"Suicide of Fake Genius", the paper had read the next morning.
Of course, he knew it to be a complete load of rubbish. Sherlock Holmes was by far the most intelligent man he'd ever met, and by no stretch of the imagination was this brilliance fake. Such a tarnished label was insulting to his memory.
The headline played down just how unbearably silent the flat had been since the fall.
221B had never been this quiet;this unbearably grim. The police found the abandoned mobile phone on the roof of the building. They listened to Moriarty's unintentional confession, and when John was called in as well to hear it for some sort of witness's testimonial that he'd hardly paid attention to the explanation of, he broke down.
Sherlock Holmes, his best friend, and as far as he was concerned the smartest man in the world, had died to save him. If he and the others hadn't been threatened, Sherlock would still be alive and as insufferably wonderful as ever.
The worst part of it was that even without this great genius, this sole consulting detective, the world kept turning as if nothing had happened.
Everyone carried on as if Sherlock wasn't dead and John wasn't dying himself.
There are many who attest to the days after the untimely demise of a loved one being agonizing to the point of those left behind wishing to meet a similar fate. John, however, found this not to be true. The days since Sherlock had blended together and become weeks, then months, as he followed his schedule like clockwork.
He'd started working at the clinic again, and had come to hate it; to almost resent the sympathetic and unknowingly patronizing stares, the hushed tones that people seemed to take around him. It served only as a reminder of what he had lost.
His days became life before Sherlock all over again, but with the added grief that he had once known a better, happier existence that he would never get back. He moved out of 221B and swallowed his pride enough to move in with Harry.
It had become too painful to stay in the flat, although he felt guilty for leaving Mrs. Hudson behind. While he did manage to keep in contact with her, it simply wasn't the same; plain and simple.
Time passed, and his monotony was finally broken again, although whether or not it was for the better was questionable at best. Although he had not heard from Lestrade in quite a while, one morning his phone rang with what he found to be a text from the detective inspector himself.
The long-awaited message was nothing more than an address, plain and simple. Not even a greeting, although John had to admit that he was relieved by that.
He couldn't understand what Greg wanted him there for; after all, he'd always been Sherlock's plus one. Nonetheless, his curiosity peaked, he drove out to the address without hesitation. It was about half an hour or so from where he'd been staying with his older sister, although with his anxiety it seemed to be much longer.
Left alone to his thoughts, he was relieved to finally pull up at the old house. Rightfully pushing aside any hopes of small talk, John was pleased to see that Lestrade got right down to business. A young woman had apparently disappeared from this house, leaving behind a very confused friend.
The victim's name was Katherine Nightingale, and apparently there had been no signs of a struggle or anything of the like. Anderson was questioning her friend and sole witness, Sally Sparrow, at the time of his arrival.
There was a tense atmosphere surrounding the officers at the crime scene, and none dared to mention the deceased consulting detective as John got right to work looking around. He was not nearly as clever as his friend had been, but he decided to try his best to solve this all the same.
Although the former army doctor spent up to two hours at the crime scene, he was absolutely stumped. There was no way that Katherine could have been kidnapped like this, and it was absolutely ridiculous to think that she could have run away without Sally noticing.
Anderson had relayed to him something the girl had said that John had been turning over in his mind and considering ever since. She'd insisted that at the time of Kathy's disappearance, there were several stone angel statues scattered around the area.
However, when they were investigating, he'd seen absolutely none. It was for this reason that he decided to investigate further that night. John had a bad feeling about all of this; he'd been uneasy since the morning before, when he'd seen a blue police box sitting on the street corner. Surely such a thing hadn't been around since the sixties, so how was it here?
Something strange was obviously going on, and he couldn't ignore it.
The house, fading and vaguely run-down, was eerie at night, giving John the distinct feeling that he was being watched. This nervousness urged at the back of his mind; insisting that he turn around and leave.
He ignored it.
In the upstairs of the estate, which was damp, dark, and rank with the odor of age, he encountered one such statue. It was bowed in what could be either grief or prayer, eyes shielded by its hands.
Frowning, he approached it tentatively, examining it with his eyebrows furrowed in thought. How on earth did it get here? He could have sworn he'd searched the entire place, and had not found a single statue.
Unable to possibly fathom the immanent and unsavory consequences of doing so, John blinked.
He found himself in the bustling, cobbled streets of London.
Something was not quite right, though. The pavement, replaced by stone, was occupied by horse-drawn carriages and people dressed in clothing that had gone out of style a long, long time ago.
Eyes wide, John swore under his breath in disbelief. Of course, this disbelief had to wait, as a moment later he quickly dodged from out of the way of a carriage.
"Oh my god, I must be dreaming. Please tell me I'm dreaming." He muttered under his breath to no one in particular.
He wasn't.