John sipped politely at his coffee, grimacing at the sweetened taste—he'd specifically asked for black coffee; not that the idiotic teen at the little coffee stand could tell the difference—and making a feeble attempt to listen to what Mike Stamford was droning about. Mike was a nice man and all, but he tended to go on and on about particularly boring matters; he hadn't changed much, not in that aspect, at least. Mike had been somewhat of a friend when they'd been at Bart's together, though they were never that close. Still, it was nice to have some company in his new, mundane life as an ex-soldier. And the man had bought him a coffee, after all—it was overly sweet and a bit watery for his taste, but it was a nice gesture and the least John could do was be polite for a while.
Mike briefly commented on his current problem, of how London was probably too expensive for his army pension, jokingly stating, "That's not the John Watson I know."
"I'm not that John Watson," John replied rather seriously, swallowing another mouthful of sugary liquid. The mood dropped a bit, Mike shifting awkwardly next to him.
"Couldn't Harry help?" he suggested, knowing the answer already; John's rocky relationship with his sister wasn't exactly "top secret".
The ex-army doctor snorted. "Like that's going to happen." The last time he'd seen Harry had been before his invalidation from the army, at a Christmas dinner gone wrong and ending in multiple shattered glasses and a sore nose—she'd learned how to pack quite the punch at an early age. Mike was silent for a moment, thinking.
"I dunno, get a flatshare or something?"
The other man laughed cynically. "Come on. Who'd want me for a flatemate?" John joked, half-serious. Even before Afghanistan, John hadn't exactly been the most social person, so finding someone who he could live with was a bit of a challenge. And really, who wanted a broken ex-soldier with no job and a hand gun hobbling about their flat? No, a flatshare was definitely out of the question.
A small, almost wistful smile spread across Mike's face as he chuckled, like he thinking about something entirely different.
"What?" John asked, frowning at the blank gaze from his friend's eyes. Mike turned towards him. Confusion flickered across his face then, eyebrows drawn together as if deep in thought, frowning heavily. "Mike?"
The larger man blinked a few times, seemingly baffled about what he'd been about to say. "Sorry, mate," Mike muttered, perplexed, "Forgot what I was gonna say." He scrubbed a hand over his face, as if that would help him regain his lost thoughts.
An odd sense of disappointment ran through John as he leaned back against the bench, still frowning. It felt like something was off, like he'd forgotten something entirely and had missed out on it. Like something was going to happen that should have. Nothing happens to me, he thought bitterly.
A week after catching up with Mike, John had dug himself deeper into his depressing rut. Every day was the same endless cycle: appointments with Ella in the morning, futilely try to post on his blog, become frustrated with said blog. Walk around London for a bit, maybe look and see if there were any job openings at a clinic, return to his lonely little bedsit, eat a small meal of beans on toast or something just as equally boring. Lay awake and hope Afghanistan wouldn't torment him in his dreams. Repeat.
It was a mundane, calm life, one that some would have enjoyed in its simplicity. It just wasn't his life. John needed action, craved danger and adventure. It had been the entire reason he'd signed up for the army—running around strange places, always being shot at, the constant threat of death looming over his head as he ran on pure, unadulterated adrenaline to reach and treat the injured and dying, knowing that any moment he could die and yet feeling like he had an actual purpose in life other than to marry some faceless woman, get a dull job in an office cubicle and maybe have one or two children. John had enjoyed that life, relished the action-packed life and also the fulfillment he felt when successfully saving a dying man on the battleground.
A single shot to the shoulder, some shrapnel in his leg, and it was all over. Memories were a blur; his hospitalization; meeting Bill Murray, the nurse who saved his life, who broke the news of his being invalided home; arriving to the bleak chill of London at Heathrow airport, alone, because Harry was too drunk to welcome her injured brother home. Everything was just one sort of run on sentence that he barely remembered. And all of a sudden, John was left to fend for himself in an ex-soldier's life, unaware of how to live the unexpected mundaneness with nothing but a bum leg, painful memories of the dead and dying and an almost imperceptible, career-ending tremor in his dominant hand.
John rubbed a palm against his eye and sighed heavily. Today had been one of his poorer days; he'd been turned down for a job at a clinic, had snapped at Ella harshly, and the dramatic change in the freezing January temperature was causing his shoulder to ache sorely. Grabbing his laptop from his desk drawer, John's fingers lingered on the handgun he kept underneath, brief memories flooding his mind before he dismissed them. It was easier not to think about it.
He stared at the blank white page for a moment, the title at the top proclaiming "THE PERSONAL BLOG OF DR. JOHN H. WATSON". There were a handful of posts already, mostly ones with titles like "Nothing", "Pointless," and "Look Ella, I'm writing on my blog". One or two told about his meet up with a couple of his rugby mates from Uni, another a plea for help on how to delete the post (or the blog entirely, either one would do). After several frustrating minutes of gazing blankly at the blinking cursor that mocked his inability to pull something worthwhile out of his memory, John gave up entirely, collapsing on his military-neat bed. Completely bored, John snatched the daily newspaper from his bedside and unfolded is crisply, scanning it over in a half-hearted search for something to do.
FOURTH SERIAL SUICIDE FOUND IN BRIXTON
SUSSEX FARMERS SAY FAILING CROPS A RESULT OF ANGRY PAGAN GODS
LOCAL MAN SWEARS BLUE BOX "FELL FROM THE SKY"
SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS
BLACKHEATH RUGBY TEAM TO…
Suicide of fake genius? John felt compelled to flipped to the page listed under the title. A picture stared up at him, depicting a man with a raven curls and verdigris eyes that seemingly pierced right through him. John kept reading:
Consulting detective Sherlock Holmes was found dead of an apparent suicide at Roland Kerr Further Education College of a self-administered poison. Detective Inspector Lestrade, who is heading the recent suicide case, has not said if his suicide is connected to those of four other serial suicides in the area, the fourth being media journalist Jennifer Wilson of Cardiff, found in Lauriston Gardens, Brixton. Holmes has been known for his observation skills, helping Scotland Yard out with some of the more macabre and brutal cases. Some believe that the detective's scarily accurate "observations" are, in fact, fake, and that he simply researched the people he met. Government official, brother Mycroft Holmes, was unable to comment…
"Shame," John murmured to himself, "No wonder he killed himself, all the media attention calling him a fake. Poor bloke." He wondered why he felt so sad; this death wasn't nearly as powerful as all the men and women he served with in Afghanistan, yet he felt a deep sense of mourning for the man he had never met. Piercing green eyes stared back from the photograph at the top, cold, aloof expression sending shivers down John's back. For a brief, fleeting moment in time, a mere second, he felt like he knew the man gazing taciturnly up from the paper. It was gone in the same amount of time as it came, but it was enough to compel John to snap open his laptop again and type a quick blog post.
Serial Suicides:
There's been another of those 'serial suicides'. It's weird. There doesn't seem to be any connection between the deceased. It doesn't make sense.
The new one was some bloke named Sherlock Holmes. Odd name, some sort of consulting detective, whatever that means. Shame, it looked like he's solved a lot of cases for NSY. Got a lot of heat for it too; everyone's been calling him a fake since he died. Poor bloke. RIP, Sherlock Holmes.