This idea came to me while I was watching Merlin, and thinking about Sherlock, and ways their respective worlds could collide, and what they had in common in the series.
I know, I know, even though I haven't seen it yet I know that at the end of Merlin the main character is an old man in the 21st century (sorry if that's a spoiler alert); let's say just for argument's sake he's taken on his old youthful form for some reason or other.
And if you must give me criticism, please make it constructive; aka something more than "This story stinks!"
Also, do I really have to give a disclaimer? I mean, I'm American, and female, so that already rules me out as being either Stephen Moffat or Mark Gatiss, and probably whoever created Merlin, too.
Well, that's enough from me; let the story begin!
That idiot!
That nincompoop!
That stubborn, selfish, idiotic, obnoxious...aargh!
John stomped through the park, not caring if he was being childish, or if people were staring at him. Let them. Let people see how angry he was, even if they couldn't recognize the reasons behind it, if they didn't even recognize him. No, they probably wouldn't, since he was always in the shadow of Sherlock bloody Holmes, trying his absolute hardest to stop the idiot from doing something so reckless he'd get himself killed one day, and John might not be there to save him next time because he insisted on running off by himself and therefore he'd ended up nearly stabbed to death because he didn't have the common sense to bring backup!
He knew he was allowing his thoughts to run around in circles, and that once he calmed down he would probably feel very silly. But he was still angry enough not to care about that, and therefore he was here, where he would be less tempted to suddenly punch Sherlock, regardless of the fact that he had just gotten stitches and had been sent back to the flat with a stern sick note and an order of bed rest.
John was all the more frustrated by the fact that Sherlock seemed not to understand why he was angry; he'd even had the unmitigated gall to ask, "What's the big deal, John? I got away all right."
The doctor had snarled back, "You are not all right! You have suffered a knife wound to the chest! That's where your heart, lungs and several other vital organs are; you're lucky none of them got punctured by that knife!"
Then, so he wouldn't have to see his flatmate give him that patronizing 'oh-John-you're-being-so-ridiculously-emotional' stare, he'd stormed out.
John was so absorbed in his thoughts that he walked right into a fellow visitor to the park; once they successfully disentangled themselves and stepped back, he saw that it was a young man, dark-haired, wearing some kind of weird neckerchief thing over a T-shirt and jeans. He also that unfortunately, the young man had been eating some kind of pastry while he walked, and thanks to the collision, it was now smeared all over the aforementioned neckerchief.
"Oh gosh, I'm sorry," he began apologizing, hot with embarrassment. At the same time the young man hurriedly tried to assure him, "No, it's all right, if I had a pound for every time I got this dirty I'd be rich, it's very easy to clean off." Then he looked up at John, and his eyes widened slightly.
"You look familiar. I remember you from somewhere."
With an internal sigh, John awaited the inevitable "Oh my goodness me, you're that guy who hangs around with Sherlock Holmes! That's amazing, what's it really like to live with him?" As if the blog didn't make it clear enough. He might even ask the age-old question: Are you a couple?
Come on, let's get it over with.
Surprisingly, when his quizzical look finally cleared, it was accompanied by the words, "You work at a medical center here in London. I saw you there one time when I went in to get treated for a sprained wrist."
"...Oh." He tried not to show how surprised and relieved he was. "Right. Sorry, but I'm afraid I don't remember it."
"No, it's fine, you weren't the one who treated me. I just remember seeing your face."
The younger man brushed some of the pastry's remains off his neckerchief. After a moment of awkward silence, John finally held out his hand.
"John Watson."
The boy shook his hand with a friendly grip. "Emery Merle."
"Interesting first name," John couldn't help musing.
The boy grinned disarmingly. "I know. ...So, you have a job as a doctor?"
Before he could help himself, he replied, "No, that's just my occupation."
Emery looked confused. "Huh?"
"My job," the doctor growled in an absolutely fed-up tone, "is babysitting a thirty-something-year-old with intelligence beyond anyone else I know, but with the emotional maturity, social skills and ability to protect himself of a five-year-old."
There was another moment of awkward silence, before Emery finally said, "Believe it or not, that sounds a lot like myrelationship with one of my friends. Except he is an absolute idiot."
"Really?" John could feel a strange, screaming spirit rising up inside him, and even though the sensible part of his brain was asking, "Um, John, why are you pouring out your problems to a complete stranger?" he asked, "Doeshe have this habit of never listening to you when you need him most to, and charging off into danger and nearly getting himself killed if you aren't there to help him, and not appearing to care at all what you might do if you lost him?!"
As he stopped for breath, he thought about that last part. Yes, that was the thing bugging him most. By now he knew Sherlock cared about him; he'd seen it in his eyes at the Pool, when first he thought he had created a big elaborate plot against him, and was hurt by it, and then fear for John when he realized his blogger's life was in danger and he still was Sherlock's friend. So why couldn't the moron see he was of equal importance to John? All he wanted was for Sherlock to stay safe. Well, technically he wanted other things (to have a steady relationship with a woman who could get along with Sherlock, to have a full supply of milk in the fridge, not to be awakened at some unholy hour by screechy caterwauling, to name a few things); but one of his top priorities was looking out for the man who had given him a purpose again.
To his surprise, the boy was nodding.
"Yeah, that sounds like my friend, all right." He then jerked his head towards a nearby pub. "What say you we go get a drink, and you can tell me more about this?"
John looked him over, and mused aloud, "You don't look old enough to be drinking."
"Believe me, I'm a lot older than I look."
Somehow, John did believe him.
They spent about half an hour in the pub, comparing their respective friends. And John had to admit that Emery's relationship with Arthur (the name of his friend) was a lot like the doctor's own with Sherlock; Emery and Arthur bickered on a regular basis, and there were times when they wanted to kill each other, but neither was happier than when he was hanging around with the other. It made him feel a bit better, knowing he wasn't alone in having to be a combination watchdog and handler for someone he cared about.
"I know it's frustrating sometimes," the boy told him at one point, "but you've got to remember that ultimately, they need us just as much as we need them. Whether they admit it or not."
"So where's Arthur now?" he finally asked.
Emery's previously cheerful face became very solemn. He stared into his beer glass moodily for a moment, before saying, "He's gone on a long trip. I'm still waiting for him to come back."
"Why couldn't you go with him?"
The boy shrugged his thin shoulders a bit. "It was somewhere he had to go alone. But I was assured he'd return someday." His eyes were sad.
"Hey, if he cares about you at all, he'll come back," John said, unsure where exactly the words were coming from, or why he was willing to talk so freely to this boy.
Emery looked back at him, and then smiled.
"Thanks. I needed to hear that."
Just then John's phone beeped. He saw it was a message from (who else?) his injured flatmate.
My chest hurts. Do we have any pain killers? -SH
John rolled his eyes. "I think I'd better go. Duty calls."
Emery chuckled.
They paid for their drinks, and headed out onto the street. Once there, John held out his hand to Emery again.
"Thank you for the drink, and the conversation."
Emery shook warmly. "Any time."
As he turned away, John thought he saw the boy's eyes flash gold for a moment. But he decided that must have been his imagination. And he certainly never suspected it had anything to do with the extra cash he found in his pocket that he used to take a cab home, to see how Sherlock was doing; he just figured he'd had it there and forgotten about it.