1. Beginnings
The first thing he does is use my phone. Then proceeds to tell me an extraordinary amount about myself from just that briefest of exchanges, such a small experience. Looking back now, that's when I first started to fall head over heels for Sherlock Holmes.
You'd have thought I'd injured my head and not my shoulder, going headlong into a trusting friendship, (Not a relationship yet, then, dammit) with someone I barely knew. Of course, the heart does things to the head that no one can understand.
One thing I sure can't say now is "Nothing ever happens to me."
2. Middles
After so many times of Sherlock giving Mycroft a hard time about his diet, John finally had to ask. "Why do you always bother your brother about his weight? It looks like he has it well under control to me."
Sherlock looked up from his experiment. "Before puberty, Mycroft was.. a little overweight. More so around his stomach and such, but you get the idea." That was enough of the family history Sherlock wanted to reveal, and went back to work.
John shook his head. He knew as long as he lived, he'd never fully understand either of the Holmes.
3. Ends
No. No. No. This is not the way it was supposed to go. At all. This is not the end. I'm sitting alone, and helpless, vulnerable, and I don't understand any of it. I know you're not a fake, and I don't believe you when you said you were a lie. I won't believe it. I just won't.
Why did I tell you not to be dead. That's silly. Maybe I've cracked. But you don't really feel gone. The bond we still have, tells me you're alive. Somehow. I really don't like this, Sherlock, not at all. Please come back.
4. Insides
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You're a doctor, John. I didn't think you'd be that squeamish."
John tried not to look at the table. "Sherlock, there are intestines on the table. That is.. just.. ugh."
Sherlock said nothing but went back to his dissecting. After a couple of minutes, he spoke, glancing just slightly at John. "At least these are just the inside of a pig. Since you outlawed the human version.." Sherlock sighed a long suffering sigh, like he was the one who had to live with his flatmate's experiments on the table.
John straightened sharply. "Damn straight I did."
5. Outsides
It was a bright spring day, and John had dragged Sherlock out. They were sitting outside, enjoying the weather. John was happy, Sherlock wasn't. Still dressed in black, coat and scarf, sulking.
"Sherlock. It's a beautiful day. How could you not want to spend it outside?" John asked. Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disgust, but said nothing.
John made sure he was close to Sherlock, so only he could hear what was said next. "For all the time you spend outside today, I'll make it up to you for the same amount of time later. In. Our. Bed."
Sherlock smiled.
6. Hours
It had only been 5 hours since he met Sherlock Holmes, and he was going to meet him tomorrow night to look at a flat with him.
John looked around the sparse room he currently lived in. Well, it couldn't get much worse. He thought about the gun in the desk drawer and how often he had it in his hands the last couple weeks, how close he'd come to- well, he couldn't worry about that now, could he? He had a chance at a better life, now. He sure hoped it was better..
It had to be. Right? Right.
7. Days
Not that it was bad music, but John Watson had had enough. After putting the pillow over his head (again) and sighing (also again) he angrily marched downstairs. "Enough, Sherlock. That is enough!" He yelled and Sherlock (finally!) stopped playing the violin.
"What is it, John?" As he raised the bow, John raised his voice again.
"Oh no you don't! You've been playing that thing for a day and a half straight! I need some sleep!"
Sherlock looked like he was going to argue, but a hard kiss from John made Sherlock lay down his instrument and follow John upstairs.
8. Weeks
Two weeks. John had been gone for two weeks. "Harry is in hospital, in a very bad way", John said, worried as he packed a suitcase. "You know I have to go to her, Sherlock. Family's all we got in the end." That sounded familiar, but he really wasn't sure that applied to him and Mycroft. Not really. Maybe. He didn't know.
He knew he needed John, now more than ever. He missed him terribly, and texted him relentlessly. John was patient with him, as always.
Sherlock heard a cab slow, stop, then a door slam. John. JOHN! His John.
9. Months
4 months after Sherlock's death, most of London had forgotten about John Watson. If John thought he was in a bit of trouble mentally before Sherlock, after Sherlock was a whole different matter entirely. He was still in Baker Street. Probably should have moved on but couldn't. He really just couldn't.
And every time there was a moment of the darkest, so dark and deep that John swore he'd ever find his way out, but then, a shake of his soul, and the moment would pass. John would stare at the gun, gaping, and lay it back in the drawer.
10. Years
3 years. over a thousand days. (Yes, Sherlock, I know it's 1,095 days, you genius, thanks for that..) John didn't know where the years went. He just got up, kept on breathing, eating, working, living, breathing. And the days turned to weeks, then months, then one day John stopped and realized it'd been 3 years since the day Sherlock died.
John slowly tread up the stairs to the flat. So lost in his thoughts, he didn't notice the landing door open and a man in a long coat waiting for him.
Who caught him before he hit the floor.