The man known as John Watson trudged through the deserted landscape, boots sinking in the sand. It was always a muddy building, dirty; it stood hunched as if it was attempting to protect itself from the sun that was unrelenting in its assault upon the crumbling brick. Outside, the sand blew up a storm and a man in uniform was forced to enter, seeking solace from the harsh weather and the rap of gunfire- a distant figure in a bleak landscape of old, decrepit buildings and sand-dunes. The whole scenario was familiar to him, a routine he had been through time and time again, with one constant, one outcome, only one. A part of him was angry that he was weak enough to let this happen time and time again, but another part of him craved the nightmares, for it was another chance to see a friend, an old friend. The nightmare was always the same, and had been for six months now, yet it still made his heart pummel against his chest as he ran in an adrenaline-fuelled sprint for safety. His hands would bunch in his sheets, and he would toss and turn in a cold sweat whilst he dreamed.
Upon entering the ruin, a familiar gunshot would tear through his senses and the smell of brick dust and something sharper would clog his nose, disrupting his breathing, his lungs tightening in his chest. The man would break into a run, trip. Then crawl. The hail of bullets showed no sign of easing up as he made his way through the empty barrack, sand dirtying his heavy trousers and covering his palms; as he moved he found his breath caught in his throat as terror knotted deep inside him. Somewhere nearby a flash-bang grenade went off and bright stars flickered in-front of his eyes, left him to stumble onward, a path he had tread too many times already. There would be a door, any moment now, as was always the case. This had become a routine John Watson was all too familiar with. All around him gunshots cracked, and someone shouted his name over and over, someone being a man he very much wanted to forget.
He walked up to the door that had appeared as he rounded the corner. It did not fit in; painted white, cleaner than the dirty surroundings, no sign of bullet holes or burns. As he rounded a corner, there it was. Waiting. It made him freeze in step, staring with suspicion, and then fear, though he was also drawn to it – there was nothing he could do to stop himself from approaching the door, now. He tried to calm his breathing to keep his eyes from watering, as a pain began to slowly work its way through his heart, burying deep into the very marrow of his bones, an ache that left him feeling empty and hollow. In his mind, he counted to ten in keeping with his breathing, but it did not help the pain in his throat that threatened to choke him. It was always the same. This ache was a friend to him now. Further away another grenade blasted and shook dust down from the ceiling of a building that was threatening to collapse, and John was roused from his temporary paralysis long enough to notice the dull throb in his leg that had returned. He would slowly edge towards the door, eyeing it as if it were a deadly predator and he its prey.
Once he arrived at the door, as inevitably he always did, he would press an ear to it and hear the roar of traffic and the noise of a crowd, the hubbub of a city that never slept. His palms, slick with sweat, would pose many issues to him as he fumbled with the handle before eventually crashing through, knocking his knee painfully in the process. From his position on the floor he could hear a conversation, and he screwed his eyes shut in an attempt to block it out in some small way, scraping his fingers along the hard cement rooftop. Anything to distract himself, anything at all. From his position on the floor he would stand, slowly, shakily, his breath coming in painful gasps.
Moriarty would already be dead on the floor - his sharp suit crumpled and creased -, the blood pooling under him and streaming out, painting the roof a disgusting red, blank eyes staring across at John, watching the doctor take the scene in. His eyes reflected the clouds in the sky, mirroring the blue in Sherlock's own and even in death, Moriarty seemed to be smirking. He knew he had won. Sherlock would be on the phone, talking. Sherlock was always on the phone. John remembered the speech well, and Sherlock's voice seemed to echo around John as he stood helpless, arm outstretched, though it was of little use, John could no longer move. Even when he tried, he found himself motionless, a statue.
"Keep your eyes fixed on me". It was a demand. Sherlock had always been so demanding, with his tendency to run off, play violin at god-knew-what-time and his arrogance. It was something that had once exasperated John. Now he just found himself missing the quirks, the little eccentricities; all those things were things that were inherently Sherlock and if anyone else had tried to pull them off, they would have earned a fat lip. And that was something John had never wished to do, even through everything that he had been subjected to, John had never wanted to hurt Sherlock. Sherlock was Sherlock, and that was fine by John. Sherlock had been quirky, difficult, but Sherlock had been a friend, something that John had so desperately needed. These thoughts in his mind, he indulged his best friend once again, unable to stop staring at the back of Sherlock's head while Moriarty's crumpled form watched the scene unfold, smugly. He could hear the sadness in Sherlock's voice, combined with his heartbeat loud in his ears. He mouthed all the things he'd wanted to say, all the thanks he had wanted to give the man, and all the ways he wished he could tell Sherlock just how much he meant. But his voice caught in his throat, locked away tight, a bird in a cage. Maybe if he'd said them, he'd have been able to save his best friend, and John resented himself for being a weak man – it was a thought that haunted him to this very day.
"This phone call, it's my note. It's what people do, don't they?" Sherlock spoke again, and John cleared his throat, tears rolling hot and fast down his cheeks as he tried to speak. But his voice wouldn't come. Moriarty's body laughed.
"Dying. That's what people do" it gurgled, correcting Sherlock through the blood that undoubtedly clotted in his throat. John tried his best to ignore the words of the body and found himself able to walk towards Sherlock and away from Moriarty, though the body would turn and watch him. His limp returned with each step that he took; progressively worsening the closer he got to his friend. He got about a foot away before he stopped again, the pain in his leg unbearable as he sunk to his knees unable to hold back tears any more.
Everything moved in slow motion. Sherlock turned his head towards John, staring at him from the corner of his eye for what felt like an age, and then he would blink sadly and step off the edge of the building. John would remain frozen, watching the place where Sherlock had stood, at the city skyline – a crow flying through the air some ways away – until he heard the thud. Then he found himself able to move, and would peek over the edge of the building. Sherlock's face turned up, cold grey eyes staring up at him.
Back in London, back in the present day, John Watson sat up in bed in the wake of another nightmare that has plagued him for months. Sweat sat on his brow, and his sheets were bunched around his fists where he pulled at them in a feverish attempt to change history. It is six months since the fall, the break-down and the funeral, and two months since he had moved back into Sherlock's old apartment on a fixed rent, courtesy of Mrs Hudson. He had not wanted to return, he had wanted to leave the apartment, leave London, even leave England... leave behind everything he associated with Sherlock but Mrs Hudson had insisted. Outside, it rained and the sky was grey but to John, the sky has been grey for quite some time. Indeed, his life has been grey for quite some time. He had been stuck in a rut, on leave from his job (though nobody expected him to come back in any case) and if not for the endeavours of a certain Landlady who had taken it upon herself to ensure his safety, he very much doubted he would have been able to pull it together. If you could really call this pulling-it-together.
He no longer attended his monthly therapy appointments. He rarely left his apartment, and he hadn't spoken to another human being in days. He, in fact, had only kept one thing updated - his blog - out of some impulse, he kept it updated. It had detracted from Sherlock and the cases they had shared, for obvious reasons, and the only thing he really talked about was his day-to-day life, out of sheer boredom, to a dwindling audience who were tired of him. After all he was no longer a cause célèbre. But it was a small comfort and he took the opportunity to talk to a blank screen as often as possible. The other activity John Watson indulged in, in his day-to-day life was a pointless endeavour. The activity in question was not so much an activity, as something he did to keep himself occupied, in any way he could, and he had taken up reading. On his brief ventures out into London, he had begun collecting old poetry volumes, browsing the old shops. He enjoyed the smell of old ink and crumpled paper, and the poetry offered him some way out – he utterly absorbed himself in the words, and for a brief time, he could forget Sherlock.
Everyday John hoped that he would awake to Sherlock's presence, sometimes he even caught himself praying but what faith he'd nurtured in a higher power, already beaten down by the stint in Afghanistan, was now gone. His best friend, the man he loved, the man he hated, was gone. A large part of him knew that Sherlock wasn't coming back.
But Sherlock was brilliant. And if he really was brilliant, there was always a hope that he was alive somewhere, and he would come back, and everything would be alright again. It was a small hope, one that he was slowly letting dampen as time stretched on, and now it was only a small fire he nursed in his heart – the hope that Sherlock was okay, somewhere.
As a veteran he had been able to cope - he'd had Sherlock, and all things to do with Mr Holmes had served as a suitable distraction for him to feel better. The thrill of the cases, of the chase, his best friend had helped John to recover. Ironic then, that the same man would be the cause of so many problems, the same man who plagued his daily nightmares, the same man who had allowed him to fall into such a terrible state and even in some ways been the cause. In saving John, Sherlock may indeed have been the catalyst for his undoing. For this reason, a large part of John now resented Sherlock, everything the consulting detective had stood for. A large part of John also loved him for the very same reasons. John sighed and looked at his clock, the time being a little past 5AM. The man shuffled to the end of the bed, and stood up, stretching out with a pained grunt as his shoulder popped, before he made his way to the kitchen for a glass of water and a course of sleeping pills. After this, and after his heart had settled and he could breathe without the familiar sting of tears, he decided that sleep was the best option.
It was indeed, not till well past twelve that he emerged from his room, roused by a clatter in his front room, wrapped in a striped blue bathrobe as he looked across at his visitor – Mrs Hudson - who had gotten into the habit of letting herself in to the apartment to clean up, and generally check on John. She was currently conducting her mid-week clean up, sweeping dead flies out of the windows and washing out dirty mugs. He slowly blinked as he stumbled over an old newspaper to help Mrs Hudson, but she pushed him back into a chair and insisted that she do it, shooing him away with a feather duster that made him cough. He really should have taken better care of his apartment, but he couldn't bear to be here, where everything reminded him of Sherlock. A circlet of bullets in the wall, the smiley face taunting him, notes left on the fridge.
"After all I'm not expecting you to be over the poor dear yet. When you've shared a bond like that with another, I know, well I know it can be ha-"
John interrupted her before she could continue, however reluctant he was to say it, he had to point it out.
"We weren't a couple."
"I don't mind you know, I'm accepting of all people!" Mrs Hudson said, with a comforting smile. John couldn't help but smile back, with a half-hearted "but I'm not gay!".
He did not have much in the way of human contact any longer, but the contact he did have with Mrs Hudson was enough to make him feel a bit better; he needed that this morning.
"Of course when it was my husband … well you know" She paused and looked up at him, realising he was lost in his own world, so she got on with the housework.
He sat on the sofa as he stared at his phone, which had been lodged in the seat beside him, while in the background his landlady continued her work, opening up a fridge and wrinkling her nose at what she found. Holding up a bag of something mouldy, she sighed and threw it away.
"Oh dear you're starting to turn into Sherlock. Don't start leaving heads in here!" John, at this point was only half listening, staring down at his phone. He had a message. Nobody ever messaged him, they all found him too miserable, or simply associated him with Sherlock, and that was not something people wanted to be associated with these days.
With a small sigh, John opened it. Thought skittered through his mind, his brow furrowed in confusion.
"Use GPS to find 243 types."
It was not signed off. He, also had no idea who this was, he knew the phrase sounded familiar and he could not place it, but was curious nonetheless. He wanted to know who this was. Mrs Hudson looked up from her work, and from the petty gossip she had undoubtedly been revealing to John, with a small titter.
"Off in your own world again love? Its okay, I understand. There's soup on the stove for you, for when you want it." she paused and smiled at John. "You should try going out, the weather is lovely at this time of year. The leaves are turning. Sherlock always liked autumn..." She paused, pursing her lips.
John nodded, but did not say anything. Mrs Hudson, sensing that he perhaps wanted to be left alone, decided to walk out, though at the last minute she peeked around the doorframe and said "we can go and visit him if you'd like. It's been, well, a while since we last saw him."
John was shaken from his thought by her words, and he realised that it had been six months to the day since the funeral, he nodded again, his voice nought but a whisper.
"Yes, thank you. That would be wonderful." And again, he smiled weakly as she nodded and softly closed the door behind her; mentioning that she would be back in a little while, leaving Doctor Watson to sit down on the sofa again, and stare at the wall. At the smiley face on the wall. It was here that John remained for quite some time, lost in thought about who the mysterious text could have been from. After a while of this, he gave up. He did not much want to be dragged into the same world that Sherlock had been a part of – he was a doctor, he had been a doctor, he dealt with physicality and what he could see in front of him, not riddles and cryptic messages.
John got up and got his coat and made his way downstairs to Mrs Hudson, where she waited with a bunch of lilies. Sherlock had never been one for flowers, or anything that served no practical purpose, and he had especially despised flowers, insisting that they were nothing but an ornament, an unnecessary furnishing that served no purpose. In this respect, sometimes John wondered whether his friendship with Sherlock had been unnecessary, whether he had just been something to adorn Sherlock's life. The pair had become joined at the hip, inseparable, and John was surprised by just how quickly he and Sherlock had clicked, and John despised him for it. He counted the what-ifs. What if he hadn't got so attached? What if he'd never gotten so settled down in this apartment? What if he and Sherlock hadn't grown so close? But despite this, John had loved Sherlock, and he supposed he should be thankful for that. He was pretty sure Sherlock had harboured some feelings for him in return, but he had never talked to the detective about it and he had missed his chance to do so. Sherlock had never been one for deep emotional conversations. He had not been one for emotions.
In any case, the landlady had insisted upon flowers, so John refrained from commenting. The taxi they had ordered was there, beeping its horn so they got in and gave. Watson was lost in thought as he watched the scenery pass, listening to the inane pop music that the cab's radio played, considering his options. Mrs Hudson put a comforting hand upon his, and he smiled, squeezing her wrinkled palm a little in return, her skin was soft and he focused upon that. Outside it began to rain a little and inside the cab the overpowering smell of lilies, sickly sweet, became a little too much for the doctor, who opened the window to let some air in. He did not venture out much nowadays, sometimes he went out for groceries, sometimes for wine, sometimes he walked along the streets late at night for some solitude but other than that the only times he ventured out of his apartment was to go and see Sherlock. It was not agoraphobia, as Mrs Hudson had so often tried to impress upon John, but he did not see the point in going outside any more. Outside was dangerous without Sherlock, outside he could get taken by Mycroft or Lestrade, outside he wasn't with his things, and the things that made him feel most safe.
As the car pulled in to the driveway of the small churchyard, Mrs Hudson decided to stay within the cab; the rain prevented her from going outside lest she catch a cold. John however, took her lilies and went out, the rain was harsh and driving and stung his face. Visiting the graveyard always made him sad, but not just sad, something more than that. A dull emotion that left him confused and depressed and stuck with him for weeks at a time. He strode past the rows of gravestones, tracing a familiar path, till he reached Sherlock's solemn headstone. It had worn little since the funeral, the gold lettering had faded to a dull brown, something that saddened John far too much. It worried him, sometimes. Would his memories of Sherlock fade too like the writing on the headstone. He crouched down and removed the old bouquet of flowers that had since withered and died, replacing them with the rather extravagant lilies, that brightened the headstone a little. One hand on the gravestone, he began to speak.
"Last time I was he- every time I have been here, I have begged you to -. Even you can't come back from the dead. You were brilliant but you were human. You aren't coming back, are you?" he took a deep breath and sighed, almost disappointed that he got no reply, that Sherlock didn't just appear over his shoulder and explain the situation, like he once had, as if everything were so simple. His voice now nothing but a whisper, as if afraid that he might be heard by the ghosts of the dead.
"Just, please Sherlock. If there's any chance you're alive, just please. Tell me."
Afraid that Sherlock would still mock him for daring to call him a friend. He stopped talking now, finding it all too painful to continue, swallowing the rest of his words as he slowly pulled back his hand, cold from the black marble.
As he straightened up and saluted the headstone, he took the withered bouquet with him and noticed that there was something lodged in there. If he had not searched he would not have seen it, for it was wedged in the middle of the bouquet. It seemed to be a piece of card with something scrawled across it. John prised it out, head bowed against the rain that was unrelenting as he made his way back to the car. On the paper was an untidy scrawl, written apparently by someone who must have been half asleep, and he hoped to get a better look at it once he was at home. The journey was slow, and John, despite the little exertion he put out, was incredibly tired and it was with weariness that he waved off Mrs Hudson, and exited to return upstairs. Once back, he slid off his coat and sat, fished the slip from his pocket so that he could stare at it with bleary eyes.
John unfurled the paper which was slightly dampened from the rain and he could read the handwriting. It was a familiar scrawl, one that brought back memories of notes left on fridges, under books and on apartment doors. The message was as such:
"Do not stand at my grave and cry. I am not there; I did not die."
The doctor, shocked, read and re-read the passage. Of course he knew that poem, but this line...
It was almost as if someone had sent him a message. Him, John. And he could think of nobody who would want to send him a message, save for one. John entertained the thought that Sherlock was still alive, even though it was a daft way of thinking, a lunatics way. It was just the sort of infuriating thing that Sherlock would have done, lead him on like this, toy with him, and instead of sorrow, he felt angry. This was evidently someone's idea of a joke, an infuriating, saddening taunt.
John stared at the paper, wondering if the thoughts that were circulating were entirely sensible, or whether he was going mad. He supposed the latter. His gaze flickered up to his mobile, wonder coursing through his veins. Could it be that the text had been from Sherlock, another clue that he had been sent? No. That was a stupid thought, dead men didn't talk, he was silly for even thinking it. His phone was still on the sofa, untouched – the only use his phone got now were the rare times that the Doctor would call Sherlock's phone, if only to hear the voice-mail. John picked it up and stared at it, then decided what he was going to do.
Yes, Dr Watson had called Sherlock. John had got into the habit of calling the phone, just to hear his voice and sometimes just begging him to not be dead if it had been a particularly long week and John had been at the red wine again. It was a habit he hadn't particularly wanted to get into but had done so nonetheless, a small way of coping that left him emptier with each ring. It was no lie that a small comfort came from the disgruntled voice message that Sherlock had recorded some years previous (one that John had made him record), and more often than not John called simply to hear Sherlock's voice. It was a voice he did not want to forget. John knew Sherlock shared no such sentimentalities, he hadn't cared for the doctor in many ways, but there were flashes of emotion in Sherlock. A sadness in his eye when he saw John distraught, an over-zealous protective streak, the assertion that he and John were "friends", a word he choked out on occasion. On the whole, however, Sherlock was as emotive as a rock, and that had exasperated John.
It was days such as these that John would call Sherlock. When the nightmares had become too much and a night of tossing and turning had left him completely empty inside, with a deep ache that resonated within his very bones. Today was no exception. In the past Sherlock would have been there in the aftermath of a nightmare, sometimes even waking up John when the screaming became too loud out of some small concern, or perhaps, more likely, so that he himself could sleep. Still, he had always provided a source of comfort, and on one occasion had held John while the man sobbed in the wake of a particularly nasty dream. Sherlock had offered a cool touch and a soothing word when John was particularly distraught, and though the detective had known nothing much of PTSD, his presence alone been enough to calm John. Of course, on other occasions, Sherlock had been less than comforting; demanding that John just pull it together; get a grip; tired of the veteran's constant fear, but on the whole he had been a friend. It had been a large comfort, one of the reasons John had recovered as he had. But now the man in question was the man John dreamed about and he had nobody to comfort him when he woke, and nothing except the silence of the apartment. Now all he had after a bad week was the voice-mail. The only thing that made him feel partially better was the prospect of hearing Sherlock's voice again.
John passed through the living room and took his phone with him, the room was strangely sterile – the police department had returned all of Sherlock's belongings, out of respect and pity for the good doctor. Mrs Hudson was unsure of what to do with the boxes and Doctor Watson had not opened many of them. They were still bagged and tagged, as they had been for months now, the things that were, in essence, Sherlock Holmes. John daren't open them, lest he sully them and the memory of a great man. That and he wasn't entirely sure what some of it was, and admittedly some of it looked incredibly dangerous. Sherlock had never been the most responsible, a cause of anguish for the Doctor now that he was left in the fallout. There was one thing with a curious bladed contraption, it looked positively lethal. And then there were the chemicals, he kept those in the fridge, unsure of how to dispose of them. He had no idea where those eyeballs had gone, though he supposed that the police had kept those, ditto the thumbs. Once in the kitchen, John filled a glass and eyed up his phone as he took a sip and pressed the dial button so that he might hear Sherlock's voice again; his hands shaking as the phone began to ring. It was always too long a wait for so short a fix, and he was saddened that he was reduced to such measures to feel better himself. It was also slightly shameful, he felt weak for it.
And then it happened, and John was unsure, really, of what it was but he knew it was something different, something that was strange. Instead of the usual voice message intoning the reasons why Sherlock was likely busy and unable to reach the phone, then proceeding on to inform the listener that he probably wouldn't reply, there was, well, there was something else.
A soft sigh, causing John to frown and glare at the bare cupboards in front of him he waited, somewhat impatiently, for the message. And then there was a voice, someone who sounded awfully irritated.
"Oh bloody hell John!"
And then the line cut off, leaving John in a stunned silence as he stared at the cupboard, a lump in his throat as he swallowed hard. After that, he went and sat down in the living room, the phone still in his hand, as he stared at the phone with something akin to horror. Dead men couldn't talk, that was impossible. He had seen Sherlock, and the blood, his memories weren't fake, the blood, spilling out red across the pavement, his limp wrist falling to the ground and the funeral, breaking down at his grave; all of it was real, he had experienced it and there was no way that was a lie, there was no way that Sherlock was alive. He pressed the dial button again, and waited for the phone to ring through.
This time the phone was cut off before even going through to a voice-mail, or being answered, making it very clear that there was someone on the other end, and they did not want to be contacted in any way by John. This piqued his interest for a few moments as he toyed with the fantastical; Sherlock Holmes was alive. Alive and well. The thought that the man he loved may well in fact exist still, no longer confined to a memory made John's heart leap in a painful lurch and suddenly he felt quite ill. Why had Sherlock not returned to the apartment, to his things… to John? Admittedly, John had ulterior motives for wanting to see Sherlock but he also, in the most simple terms, missed his best friend.
Still, the thought was there. Someone had Sherlock's phone. Someone had answered the phone and of course, there were the notes and the strange texts. It was just the sort of game a man like Sherlock might play with John, he was after all, an arrogant berk at the best of times – the thought made John smile. Any hope that his friend might be alive was a hope he was willing to entertain, and that was enough for him. Dr Watson knew it was daft, but there was something nagging at him now and he had to know, and the ache that had subsided when he had heard the voice was now a hungry ache, hungry for something that only one person could give. And if there was even the slightest hope that Sherlock was alive and well John was determined to bring him back. He realised that he hadn't taken a breath since and he exhaled sharply as he decided to retreat back to the bedroom. Sleep, no matter how distressing, was something he did often. Though he just lay in his bed, thinking, the sheets wrapped around him in an attempt to warm a chill that sunk through his body.
This was all a bit much to process for him, the sudden shock that someone had been on the other end of the phone, and he had been texted, and of course the note; it was too perfect. Too planned, it was a theatrical streak that Holmes had harboured – he had always liked an audience. Why would Sherlock return after months of playing the absentee, if indeed he was even alive, a thought which now he considered, John found preposterous. He wasn't some toy for Sherlock to play with, something he could use and cast aside then return to –especially not if he had tricked John into thinking he were dead- that was not what… friends did. This was just like the detective, for all his investigative skills, he was not the best with people nor their emotions, too fond of breaking them down logically; John knew this, he had known this for quite some time, and no matter how difficult Sherlock was there was a loyalty that remained for his old friend.
His heart beat fast and hard and he went over all the other possible options in his head, worry coursing through his veins like acid. Of course Sherlock wasn't alive! It was impossible to survive a fall that great, wasn't it? He entertained the possibility that it was one of Moriarty's associates, here to finish the job. Admittedly, to John, he had thought of a way out such as Sherlock's, and had entertained the possibility of taking few too many pills and swallowing bleach, or of carrying a toaster into his bath with him. He had quickly swept these thoughts away and resolved to keep on going; he was a fighter after all. No matter how painful it got. The second possibility, of course, was that it was Mycroft Holmes and another shoddy attempt at getting in touch with Watson. He had tried and failed to do so several times, only succeeding in angering John, but he very much doubted the man would stoop to such a measure, not even he was capable of that. He at least had some semblance of emotion, even if it was a carefully maintained mask. There was another option, one he did not care to consider.
John doubted that it was possible to survive a fall from such a height, in any such case, so it could not be Sherlock and he could not for the life of him think of anyone who had done so. The injuries sustained from such a fall were, at best, known to cause fractures of the skull and back, not something easily recovered from. Even still the hope in his mind was a small one, and the thought that Sherlock was alive had grown from embers to a small fire. Doctor Watson himself had never heard of anyone surviving a fall that great, and he doubted he knew anyone who-
Of course! Molly would know, she had more experience with the dead-side of things than he. John mentally kicked himself for not thinking of this, of her, before, and rushed to pick up his phone, throwing the covers off his bed so that he could better search. The phone rang and rang, and John hoped that she would pick up: anything that could keep his hopes alive was something that he would grab with both hands and not let go of. After a while, Molly did indeed pick up. John felt slightly bad at calling her; after all he had not kept in touch with anyone, preferring the darkness of a bedroom behind closed curtains.
"Hullo?"
John paused and considered how to reply, eventually managing to say something, though he stuttered.
"Yes, hello. So sorry to bother you and I don't know if you would remember me... I'm J-"
"Yes I remember, of course I do."
"John Watson, yes." John frowned, wondering if he had maybe caught her at a bad moment. And then he thought of Sherlock and pushed his thoughts aside, as he remembered the rare times that the man had smiled. He would see that smile again, if he could.
"Sherlock's friend."
"Yes, that's right, I was Sherlock's...friend. Anyway I was wondering if I could talk to you about something, maybe? If that's alright."
John paused as the woman on the other end of the phone sighed, then replied with an affirmative.
"Right, well then. I was wondering, well, um, if it was entirely possible to survive a fall from a 2 storey building?"
Molly, on the other end, sighed, though it was a sadder sigh and she seemed to be pulling up a chair from the scraping sound that John could hear. As if she had been anticipating this conversation.
"Listen, John. I know it's hard to accept but Sherlock is dead. I know you liked him very much but he is dead. We went to the funeral. You saw the body... you were there! You-"
John paused, trying to block out what she was saying as a familiar pang rose up in his throat and he blinked, pressing the bridge of his nose simply to do something with his spare hand.
"Yes, I know. I just. Please tell me. It's possible?"
"Well, yes it's plausible that you could survive. If you rolle-"
John paused, his breath catching in his throat.
"So it could happen?"
"Yes, yes it co- Listen John, where is this coming from?"
"Sorry I'm rather busy, I'll explain later."
And, despite Molly's protests he hung up on the morgue attendant, putting his phone aside so that he could stare down at his hands, the crinkles and folds in his skin, worn like bark on a tree, as he pressed his fingers together. It was possible then, that Sherlock could have survived. That was all he needed to know. He had several clues, and he had a small hope that he was willing to cherish and for the man, that was enough. He hung his head, and stared down at his feet, his eyes watering painfully as a thought skittered through his mind, a thought that had been lurking there for quite some time now. If Sherlock was alive, why hadn't he come back? Surely he counted John as enough of a friend to do so, and the thought permeated through his conscious and he felt very ill indeed. He had always been under the impression that Sherlock looked upon him as a friend, an admittedly slow friend, when you compared yourself to Sherlock. But then that could be said about everyone. The fact that whoever this was – and if this was Sherlock – had contacted John was enough for him to look into this. A consulting detective he was not, but he could do this, he was determined.
The doctor realised he was getting carried away with these thoughts. It was only a slim possibility, only a small chance that he was alive, and he was probably gearing himself up for a massive disappointment. He was still curious and this was still a coincidence he just had to investigate. Something about it felt distinctly like Sherlock; he who would hide John's key and lock him in his room, call him up and expect him to bring his rifle, he who all too often played with people like he were a puppeteer. John had to admit to himself that this was a bit too much like something Sherlock would do. He did not want to get his hopes up, yet he found himself doing just that. Something about this had a touch of familiarity that was simply too good to pass up on.
The doctor glanced down at his shoes, sighing softly as he did. He missed Sherlock, and none of this made any sense. John was not logical nor as methodical as Sherlock, Sherlock never missed an opportunity to say as much – was that what the man was doing now? Mocking him? Pointing out that he was never going to be intelligent enough, that he would be lost forever… he had to earn back his friendship? A stupid idea! Sherlock had always known John, like everyone else, was never as brilliant as he.
He stood up, turned the soup on the stove on, and boiled the kettle. All he wanted right now was a cup of tea, something to calm his nerves and help him think straight, if such a thing were possible. It had been a long day, a long ordeal, and he needed some rest. John had been Sherlock's friend, he was sure of it. No matter how reluctantly the consultant would spit the word out, he knew that they were friends, and friends didn't hide away and fake deaths, friends didn't mock and tease and persist in belittling one another. But this was surely a miracle, and John was a man not accustomed to miracles. Finally, John admitted it to himself. He had no idea who it was and there was a strong possibility that he was chasing at memories, changing the facts to suit the theories rather than matching theories to fact. It had taken quite some time to admit to himself that he had loved the man known as Sherlock Holmes, and by that time it was already far too late and Sherlock had jumped off of St Bart's and John had been left nursing not only a broken heart but the realisation that he had lost a best friend.
John had always known he bore no attraction to women, but the concept of attraction to another man had always been past him, something he had never considered. He had entertained several women through his life, and had never developed anything other than basic romantic feelings for any of them, and none of those relationships had ended well. They had all seem to know that he was infatuated with Sherlock – something he had not wanted to admit to himself - which was what he supposed had made it so hard for him. Even if, at times, Sherlock was nothing more than an irritating git, John had become attached to him in more ways than he had realised.
By now the soup was boiled, and John sat down at his table and ate straight from the pan, balancing it in his lap while he ate. It was a simple stew of mutton, peas and potatoes, but it tasted good. The doctor's mind was on other things, however, and he did not finish it and instead started up the computer, seeing fit to update his blog. Propping his chin on his hand, he stared at the screen and wondered where to begin, what to say. He recounted the events of the previous day, what had happened and suchlike, rambling on for a good hour or so.
John leaned back from his computer and stared at the blog post, all too aware that he appeared a rambling madman and more than painfully aware that he was being, in Sherlock's words, an idiot. Another pang rang through him, he felt very tired, much more tired than he had before, and so he retreated to his bedroom. That night he fell asleep clutching the piece of paper, having spent a large amount of time staring at it and trying to decipher just who had written it as he lay on the bed.
That night he dreamt of Sherlock. Half of his head gone, sacrificed to a gun, as he spoke with Moriarty's voice and laughed, taunting John for being a fool, too easily lead by his heart, mocking emotions.