A/N: (This start-note is identical to that of the twin-fic. 'Just so you won't get confused.)

Soooo, I decided to try something entirely new. At first I thought about giving just Sherlock his 'What happened during the time-skip?' story, but then it occurred to me that perhaps John deserves his own tale, too. Especially since it's clear that A LOT happened to them both during those months and years. So, here we are. I'm about launch a twin story. Oh dear…! (chuckles)

TO GET IN TO THE WORLD OF ONE OF THESE STORY-TWINS READING THE OTHER IS IN NO WAY NECESSARY. So no worries!

FULL SUMMARY: What happened to Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson during the time Sherlock was dead to the world? Each fighting the war on their own, they struggle to survive in a world that will never be the same again. We all know how the journey ended. But what happened along the way?

THE LENGTH OF THE CHAPTERS WILL VARY GREATLY.

DISCLAIMER: Oh, if only…! But nope, I'm not one of those FANTASTIC people who gave us this gift of a series. (sighs gloomily) There will be some quotes in this fic, and nope, I don't own those, either.

WARNINGS: SOME SERIES 3 SPOILERS. Adult themes. Violence. Gore. Depression. Language. (blinks, and looks around) Um… Anyone there…?

Alright, folks…! Since this is REALLY new and nerve-wrecking for me I'd better get going before I change my mind. (gulps) I REALLY hope that you'll enjoy the ride!

My Side of the Story, Dr. John Watson

June – Homeless

The small flat was so quiet and dark that it was difficult to believe that any living being could be found there. The whole air inside the four walls had changed, something was now missing and would never return. The place didn't feel like a home anymore. Not to the man who stumbled in a few hours earlier.

Dr. John Watson sat on his usual armchair, still as a statue, his glazed over eyes darted straight forward. His jawline was so tight that it was a small miracle nothing broke. The ache wasn't enough to silence the words and memories echoing in his buzzing head.

/ "The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street." /

/ "Who are you? What do you do?" /

/ "I'm a fake." /

/ "That… was amazing." /

/ "It's a trick. It's just a magic trick." /

John breathed hard, burying his face into his hands. Still the voices wouldn't fade away. It was a small mercy that he was too out of it to realize that Sherlock's blood from his still unwashed hands stained his face.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock", he whispered to the empty chair right before him. The sound was impossibly loud in the room's suffocating silence. Nothing but the voices in his head answered him.

/ "What's going on?"

"An apology." /

John gasped once. Twice. The sounds were dangerously close to turning into sobs. Perhaps they did.

When he came back from the war he imagined that he could never, ever feel so throughoutly lost again. But now… Now he was proven mistaken.

Sherlock introduced him to a new, mad world that he fell in love with instantly. Gave him a purpose. A home.

And now… Now Sherlock was gone. And although John wasn't alone in the world anymore he'd never felt quite as lonely as he did in that very moment, sitting in the entirely too quiet flat with nothing but his memories keeping him company.

Well, perhaps not only his memories.

John jumped with startle when the flat's door opened. Molly Hooper appeared pale and hesitant as she lingered in the doorway, visibly wondering if she was welcomed to enter or not. Her hands were shaking.

John looked into her eyes. Something cracked deep inside him. "He… He wasn't a fake."

"I know."

John wasn't quite sure what happened. But all of a sudden he was standing up with Molly hugging him stunningly tightly, her face buried to his shoulders and her whole small frame quivering. It sounded like she was crying from the bottom of her heart and soul. John couldn't bring himself to shed a tear. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he closed his arms around her. There, with his eyes firmly on Sherlock's chair, John felt emptier than ever in his life.

Much later, in the dark of the night, John sat on his chair once more, as though waiting for something. In the end, after hours and hours of perfect stillness, he moved. He took his laptop and opened his blog, then typed although his hands were shaking so badly that it was nearly impossible. The words were the truest he'd ever spoken or written.

He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him. (1)

TBC, OR NOT?

1) From John's official blog which, to those still wondering, actually does exist. (smirks) So NOT written by me - me no own!

A/N: Poor, poor John! Such pain and heartbreak. (winces) He's in for a tough one.

Now, folks, the choice is in your hands. To delete, or unleash properly? PLEASE, do let me know whether you'd like to read more of this! It'd mean a lot to me, especially when I'm just letting this story stretch its wings a little.

Thank you, several times over, for reading this! Perhaps I'll be seeing you around…?

Take care!