He falls.
That's all John ever sees. The waving arms as the man in the black coat floats almost agonisingly down in front of him. It may be that he watches it in so much detail that's the most painful – or maybe the thing that creates the heaviest pain is that he can do nothing – absolutely nothing – at all to save him.
John inhaled sharply as he awoke once again to a dark room, heart hammering blood through his ears like a drum and the back of his neck coated in a cold sweat. As he realised the dream of this memory was just that, he sighed a slow breath. Somehow there was no relief to be found in this, just a dull ache. It was a long time since he'd last woken in tears but he had passed beyond that now, going into the realm of numbness and constant fatigue. He was getting over it. He told himself he was moving on and overcoming the demons day by day but it never seemed to get any easier. He just forgot for longer periods of time.
Nine months now. John's new routine was wake up. Breathe. Get out of bed. Relieve himself, brush teeth, make sense of the ingredients left in the fridge. End up eating cereal and lukewarm tea because the kettle's on the brink. Sit in armchair and avoid looking at the one opposite. Put the news on and ignore everything they say. Get dressed, try to look normal. Turn the TV off and go to the surgery.
It had taken a while for the Sherlock storm to pass. The media had practically camped outside, wanting the newest scoop on what the fraud was like to live with, why hadn't John noticed this sooner? Was John in on this? "Dr Watson – was there anything between the two of you? Why do you remain so devoted to this man? What next for you, Dr Watson?"
John had said all he'd needed to say on his blog and chose not to say anything more. Eventually they got bored and left him alone. Sherlock Holmes was put to bed and people lost interest. John was able to search for a new job. He'd tried out for a few places but hadn't got far. Then a tiny practice in Knightsbridge had an opening and apparently he'd been the perfect person.
He'd been there for three months and had settled as best he could. Work took his mind off things and the people were pleasant enough. Yes, ok, it might not be as exciting as his previous job but he was still helping people. Couldn't sniff at that.
It seemed he was a hit at the Surgery. Though they knew his past with Sherlock Holmes he proved to be a valued practitioner not only with the staff but the patients. Women seemed to think he was like an adorable, kind little puppy and the men believed him to be an honest man and a good soldier. There were the odd few who gave him funny looks now and again because of his association but Watson ignored it. On the rare occasion that something was said about it he kindly told them what to do with their opinion.
After seeing around twenty patients it was nearing the end of the day and his next patient was a new addition to the practice. John sort of enjoyed meeting the new people. He liked to try and notice things, try and get a feel of them before they'd even spoken. So far he wasn't sure how accurate he'd been. He was however sure that noticing faded tea stains on their shirt meant they liked tea and didn't have very good washing powder, but that wasn't terribly informative and he felt he was more assuming than deducing. He preferred reading their files.
Miss Jane Willows entered the surgery; 27, born in November, previous history of fainting and low blood pressure. In person she was brunette and quite attractive. Apparently that was all he was able to 'notice' at the moment. She was polite, anyway, as she nervously reached out to take his hand.
"Good afternoon," John smiled as best he could. "I'm Doctor Watson."
"Nice to meet you," said Miss Willows, returning his smile before settling down in the chair to the side of the desk as John got ready. He made a brief introduction, then asked what was ailing Miss Willows. Apparently her dizziness had returned. He took her blood pressure, pulse, checked her ears. The only other thing was her blood sugar and he explained this in detail.
Miss Willows nodded along, trying to fit the face and the name together. She was sure she had seen him before, she knew the name but surely... it wasn't until he stood, walking over to the cabinet that had a strange grey hat on top, that she realised.
"You're Doctor Watson, aren't you?"
John paused, confused by the question. "Yes... ?"
"The blogger."
Ah. John felt his whole body tense. "...yes."
Apparently, it wasn't as bad as he'd expected for Miss Willows looked delighted. "I knew it... I used to read it all the time, it was brilliant. Everything you did..."
"Thank you. Raise your head please?" Having retrieved the torch he'd wanted John shone it in front of the patient's eyes. "And follow the light."
The test was done within around thirty seconds and then John went to continue writing his notes. He went on to explain that a blood sample would need to be taken. The needle was regarded with a slight look of terror to which John assured her there was nothing to be worried about and he'd be as quick as possible. Little did he know that his new patient hated needles. When it was put into her arm she flinched, fidgeted then had to speak.
"He helped me once –"
"Hmm?"
"Sherlock Holmes." John swallowed at the mention of his name then looked to Miss Willows. "Sorry. It was before your time. My father was poisoned. We had no idea why or how... Holmes solved it, obviously. Ended up being some weird game our psycho neighbour was playing..." John had dipped his head, pretending to focus on drawing the blood but he was still listening. "He was a very brusque man... very intelligent. My father's alive because of him. My mother always thought him to be rude anyway, but... I always remembered that he had beautiful eyes."
John gave a soft noise that resembled a laugh, a look of nostalgia as he looked down into a space of nothing while holding the blood sample up to the light. He remembered those eyes, narrowed and fierce, cold but alive with information firing in his mind... eventually John cleared his throat, preparing to continue but Miss Willows had something else to say.
"I don't believe he was a fraud." She could have left it before but she knew that look the doctor had on his face. She had been invested in that blog, in the adventures of Holmes and Watson. Now she was near to someone she admired she could finally say what she had been expressing to others if only to assure him... "I know frauds, I work with them every day. Sherlock Holmes was a brilliant man."
"Yes he was." The doctor snapped out of his reverie and then regarded her with a smile. "I'm going to send off this blood sample and we'll be able to check for any abnormalities, do the routine tests... You should receive a letter in the next few weeks and if you make an appointment with us for a month's time we'll go over the results, okay? Nothing to worry about."
That was the end of that, then. "Perfect, thank you."
John tapped his pen on the desk, then began to type up his notes, not even watching what he was doing. His patient had gathered her coat, heading towards the door.
"Doctor Watson...?"
"Yes?"
Miss Willows had paused at the door, her mouth open as if ready to console him or offer some more words but there were none that she could say without feeling completely stupid or probably have it be anything that he wanted to hear. "... I'll see you soon."
John returned home at around 7pm. After saying a good evening to Mrs Hudson he proceeded to sling his work bag on the floor before he sank into the armchair. He sat and stared at the television. Some programme where people had to overcome an assault course with big red balls was being repeated and he watched it without really investing anything. Already knowing that he had nothing for dinner he picked up the phone and dialled the local chinese. He didn't even have to state his address or name, and within half an hour he was scooping up fresh chow mein and fighting off the dribbles of sweet and sour sauce from the end of prawn toasts.
"My life is so exciting."
What had he come to? 'Bachelor John Watson sitting at home eating take away dinners watching lions go at it in the Serengeti while David Attenborough commentates because he has nothing better to do.'
He'd tried to follow Sherlock's work. He'd failed miserably because nobody had that mind, that instinct and pure – knowing. John closed his eyes, resting his head on his hand. The house was too empty. There were no random experiments or odd things hidden in random places, no sounds of the violin when he arrived home, or even someone muttering in the corner... the balance was lost. John was lost.
The phone rang.
Almost asleep John fumbled in his pocket and answered. "Dr Watson."
There was silence – "Hello?" - or he thought there was silence until he heard faint breathing on the other end. John sighed. "This is very mature. Almost disappointing, you could at least ask me what I'm wearing..." Breathing. "Look. I don't know how you got this number but please lose it."
He hung up, annoyed, then rubbed at his forehead. Withheld number. Was there any other kind?
The audacity of the phone call continued to annoy him for the rest of the nature programme. Why would someone do that, get someone's number and then listen to them bite back. Maybe it was some sick pleasure from listening in, the audio version of voyeur. He was sure there was a word for it. Sherlock would have known.
Ten minutes passed and John fell to sleep in the armchair, the TV playing quietly in the background.
On the other end of the phone a blonde man smiled slightly, storing the number he'd dialled and popping the phone into his pocket. He walked over to the window, wiping his glasses on his jumper before settling them on his nose.