Sherlock Holmes had long since succumbed to the peaceful depths of an incognito vapidity. He'd been deceased for over a year now, and it seemed almost inconceivable that a man of his stature could be wiped away so quickly and so easily. However, the world kept spinning, and revolving: not breaking pattern and going by will as it were. The papers had long since receded on posting articles of the suicide in print, and it seemed like everyone in the world had forgotten of the man's mere existence.
Everyone excluding the namely John Watson, who continued to reside at two-twenty-one Baker Street in London. It proved difficult for the ex-military man to grieve and move on with this typical scenario, and he continued on his depressing and dismal way of life in the city. The weight the man had lost involuntarily had shown: his cheeks were hollow and his clothes hung much more loosely around his fragile frame. It seemed like he simply made it day by day without much thought of each second in front of him.
Almost immediately after the funeral of Sherlock Holmes, John had hired a therapist. The death on top of the Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from his taxing deployment to Afghanistan had proved him to become severely unstable-as expected. On this very dull and bland day, John was hailing down a taxi to see this very therapist. The ride to the office had been short, and John willed it longer, but to no avail, the car stopped in front of the building within minutes. Before opening the door, he heaved a sigh, and paid the fair-barely enough for a shopping trip left in his wallet for the next two weeks.
"It's been a year," the soft and contentious voice of John's therapist mentioned. Her arms were crossed over a clipboard, and her eyes were trained on John with an almost expectant look.
"There's nothing I can say," John expressed, pressing his face into the palm of his hand, distressed.
"I've heard you tell me otherwise in months past. Please, John. Now is the time. You can't hide everything forever," she reasoned. Her ebony skin shadowed from the dimness of the room, and the dismal grays from outside hadn't helped much for lighting either. Upon previous visits, John requested the lights stay off during their sessions, and the woman agreed very reluctantly.
"I can most certainly try," he said monotonously, his face not breaking his dispirited expression.
The session ended a very long forty-five minutes later. John's therapist was left in more distress and frustration than on John's coming, but she did a very fine job on concealing her crestfallen disappointment and wishing John a swell week.
He stood in the lobby, swaying in one place and staring at one point far away from him. Beyond the faded wallpaper and beyond the trodden and aged carpet. John would do this frequently after sessions: just stay there and stare off. It alarmed the secretary at the desk more than once, but she soon learned to leave the man be, and he would soon be on his way.
It wasn't for another quarter of an hour that John snapped from his trance and realized where he'd been. He pulled the jacket tightly around him and headed out into the cool spring weather. It had begun to rain, and water splashed John's coat in large drops and soon dampening the garment. He decided to walk home, not having enough for a fare, and he braced himself for the five-mile stride.
In the midst of him walking, he felt his right pocket vibrate along with the soft and playful jingle that went along with the notice. John grimaced and fished the phone out, raindrops immediately falling and obscuring the screen from view. John frowned and wiped the water away and read the text that came with.
Seymour and Crawford.
SH
John stopped in his tracks and the phone went to idle, the screen turning blank. He blinked a few times, and then clicked a button, reading the message over thrice before returning the phone to the safety of his coat. Was this a joke? It had to be. He would oblige to the direction (as they were street names: an intersection just blocks from Baker street) if only to kill the being who sent this to him, and no hopes of Sherlock actually being in the area.
The doctor was fuming as he took long and furious strides down the road in the direction of his home. His hair slowly became sopping, dripping hard from the rain that had slowly began to pick up in speed. He blinked away the rain that splashed in his eyes and brushed away the strands of hair that fell in his face. Within the hour, John could see the street sign of Seymour Place, and he surprised himself on how expeditious he came within the vicinity of his destination. He rounded the corner with dexterity and approached the next intersection, Crawford and Seymour. There was a tall, long stone wall that stretched on his right side. Some of the stones had been weathered, and they were crumbling in places. To John's left, there was a long row of buildings with iron fences out front separating the property from the sidewalk, most likely apartments.
When he reached the corner, John surveyed the area around him, taking in the scent and the depressing feel in the atmosphere. He waited there for a few moments before sighing, clicking his tongue in his cheek, becoming impatient, and stepping back to expect a wall to lean on as he waited. However, John bumped into living, breathing flesh instead of the rough textured wall. He jumped slightly and turned around, an apology ready on his lips. That was until he caught full view of the person he bumped. He was looking back into familiar blue eyes which were slightly obscured by damp strands of hair hanging in their way. John stumbled back a little, narrowing his eyes up at the man. When he nearly fell back, John grabbed hold of the latter's coat and steadied himself.
John stared up at the other man in a near comatose state. This man, he looked very…familiar. His eyes, John has definitely seen those before. The way they narrowed down at John like he was just another boring individual, yet with a sort of affection encased in the light orbs. John's voice caught in his throat, and he was unable to speak. Everything he managed turned into a strangled moan.
"Good day, John," the figure grinned down at the doctor, "Dinner?" He asked, inhaling and straightening his back in a superior light. John's breathing became hefty and labored as he scanned the height of the man before him. Right down to his shined faux leather shoes, it was Sherlo—No! It was someone who was like Sherlock, and they knew him. An acquaintance; most likely from work. It had to be anyone but Sherlock, because Sherlock was dead.
"No," John whispered with all the conjured breath he could gather.
The taller man knitted his eyebrows together and stepped forward, a hand outreached. However, John stumbled back, their eyes meeting and the doctor's eyes were filled with a very desperate fear. It almost seemed like he was about to call out, but all that happened was a slip of the foot and John landed right on his behind, not looking phased by the fall. His eyes stared, frightened, up at the 'Sherlock' who stood before him. "You can't…No..Who are you…Wha.." He was having quite the difficulty forming such a simple statement, his words breaking up and interrupted with rapid breaths.
"John, get up, are you mad?" The latter made to advance on John, but he was already anticipating this. John struggled and kicked to rise to his feet, and his sneakers squeaked against the pavement during his effort to dash away. However, a hand firmly caught John by the coat and pulled the man close.
"John, it's me," the man breathed in John's ear in a whisper. Initially, John struggled against the latter's frame, and pushing against the man's chest. "John." The man said again, and he began to calm down, slowly. The effort put into escaping ceased gradually, and finally, John finalized by wrapping his arms around the man fiercely, and pulling him into a rough hug that lasted no longer than a tenth of a minute. The two relaxed, and pulled away, simply staring into each other's faces. John couldn't, for the life of him, find anything to debunk this man, any way to prove that he wasn't Sherlock, because he couldn't be Sherlock because Sherlock was dead.
John slowly took a few steps back, shaking his head head. Slowly at first, but then quickening into a vigorous tremble. His eyes went from a confused relief to a livid rage. His eyes stared up into Sherlock's, his head still shaking. His hand clenched tightly then not a moment too soon did his fist connect harshly with Sherlock's jaw. The detective's head flew back and his hand flew to gingerly hold his face. He crouched over acutely, his hand still gently caressing his jaw.
Sherlock recovered and quickly after and looked up but John had already started his journey home, having turned on his heel and rounding the corner onto Seymour.
"John, don't," Sherlock groaned between gritted teeth. He opened his mouth and began working the jaw gently, slowly opening and closing it. John hadn't stopped his brisk pace for the man's call, but he did yell a reply over his shoulder.
"You know where to find me, Sherlock Holmes."
It was less than cozy in the familiar flat on Baker Street. The air smelled damp from outside's weather and the rain-soaked coats that hung on the back of the sitting room door. John slumped in the only chair he came to know in the long year he spent alone in the flat with either a bottle in his hand or a clenched fist. Sherlock, however, stood wanton in the shadows of the room, staring across at the doctor. John inhaled deeply then held it for a while-Sherlock counted twenty-seven ticks on the clock in the corner of the room before John released his breath.
"Why," John breathed out finally, the word escaping in a strangled voice. At this time, he held a bottle of whisky in his hand. The seal hadn't been broken yet, however, and it seemed like he was saving it for an occasion.
"I had to. You wouldn't understand, John," Sherlock replied with sharply, raising his arms to cross over his chest.
"Try," John rasped, "Please." His hand balled into a very tight fist, then slamming down on the chair's arm violently.
"John," Sherlock's stature stiffened and he lifted his head to narrow his eyes at the other man. His tone turned firm, almost paternal.
John's finger's curled tighter around the neck of the glass bottle, a soft and clenched squeak created. He heaved a large sigh, shaking his head and closing his eyes. "You just don't understand, Sherlock," John's voice was abnormally calm, yet audibly shaky. "A year. You left me for an entire year." John finished, looking up at the detective with an almost offended incredulity.
"John, please." Sherlock pleaded to his friend for probably the first time. His eyebrows knitted together and his lower lip jutted out just past his upper, a very subtle pout.
"I don't care! I don't want your apologies, Sherlock! I want an explanation!'' John slammed the bottle on the side table with dangerous force. A very long and awkward silence stretched between the two men with the exception of the soft pitter-patter of rain hitting the windows, and John's laborious breathing.
It was Sherlock who took a silent deep breath, speaking again."I had to! There was a reason I did what I did." Sherlock's jaw clenched and he stepped forward defensively, his eyes flashing dangerously. John's hand forgot the glass bottle, and it fell to the floor with a grotesque crash, the contents flowing over the floor as the doctor stood up.
"There was a reason, was there?" John yelled over Sherlock. "Then why don't you explain that to me? I went ages thinking my best friend had killed himself! Gods, Sherlock, if I would have known better, I would have thought you'd jumped because of me! That I was just some obstacle in your life along with all the other 'morons' that you couldn't handle. I could barely come back to the flat if it weren't for Mrs. Hudson!" John continued shouting, his voice rising in a deafening crescendo
"Rubbish," Sherlock spat, "you don't understand John." his voice broke down into a soft murmur, his head lowering a few inches and breaking the heated eye contact with John.
"Then help me out, Sherlock. Help me-" John was abruptly cut off by Sherlock who 's tone sounded very defeated.
"Moriarty," he mumbles.
"I'm sorry?" John asked, leaning his right side forward, and jutting his head out, as if he couldn't hear the man.
"Moriarty!" Sherlock said, his head shooting up and staring John right in the eye. "Moriarty. He had..Men. Men who had guns. On you, Mrs. Hudson. Everyone I cared about. I had no choice." The detective's voice was wanton, and sounded like it belonged to a third party. John stood, nailed to the floor in that one spot just feet from the detective.
"What would have happened if you refused?" John inquired, a skeptical tone dampening his voice.
"They would have..." Sherlock stopped, a fisted hand raising to his mouth and his teeth biting down on his knuckles. He couldn't finish, and there was another very long and terrible silence between the two.p
A shadow of realization fell over John's eyes. "I didn't realize," he admitted, his voice becoming soft and contientious again. Sherlock stayed silent, staring down at the floor, his eyes flicking over to the broken bottle. The scent of strong alcohol brought the mess to his attention again after forgetting about the smashed bottle. After a moment, Sherlock untacked himself from the patterned wall, and picked up his jacket, swiftly shifting the garment around his shoulders and briskly walking out of the flat, leaving John standing right where he was, not even making a move to stop the other man from leaving.