Many thanks to prettybirdy979 and Aria for looking this over and for their encouragement.
Trigger Warning: Implied suicide in Section 2.
Five Things That Never Happened to John Watson...
1.
"John! John Watson!"
Dr John Watson grinned. He'd know that voice anywhere. He turned around with a ready smile on his face.
"Mike! Good god man, how long's it been?" John stretched out a hand as he strode towards his old friend.
"Too long!" Mike Stamford took his hand with a firm grip and shook it, smiling from ear to ear. "You are a sight for sore eyes, mate. I heard you joined the army to head overseas. What happened?"
John shrugged. "I thought about doing that, but it didn't pan out. Gave in to all the grief Mum and Harry were giving me, trying to talk me out of it."
"So what did you end up doing instead?"
John smiled, eyes twinkling. "Buy me a coffee and I'll tell you all about it."
The latte went down smooth, a perfect way to help shake off the wintry chill in the air. The park bench reminded John of all the times he and Mike used to sit on one while they crammed for finals. In reality they had paid more attention to the pretty girls walking by than they did to the books lying open in their laps. John smiled fondly in remembrance.
Mike looked at him out of the corner of his eye, mouth twitching. Clearly he was thinking the same thing. "So," he said after a few moments of silence, "trauma surgeon at Royal London Hospital. Sounds more exciting than my teaching gig at Bart's. How do you like it?"
"Quite well," John replied, fingers tapping on his knee. He took another drink as he gathered his thoughts. "I'm actually up for a promotion soon. It'll be more of a desk job though, so I'm not sure how badly I want it. My wife's excited about it, since it's a hefty salary raise."
Mike peered at him over his glasses. "Who'd you marry? Anyone I know?"
"Actually, yes! Remember Adrienne Allsworth from first year Chemistry? Quiet little blonde that always sat in the back, never made a peep? Too shy to raise her hand, even when she knew the answer?"
Mike's eyes glinted. "Yes! I always thought there was more to her than met the eye - almost as if she were waiting for something to unlock her true potential. Is she a doctor too?"
John nodded. "Pediatrician. She loves it, loves the kids. Channels all of her maternal instincts onto her job - for now. She won't be limited to that for too much longer, though." His eyes shone with joy. "In three months we'll have twin girls of our own!"
"How wonderful! Congratulations, John. Will they be your first?"
"Yeah. First and only, most likely. We've already got them named: Gracie and Rachel. Took them from Adrienne's middle names; she was named after both her grandmothers."
"Wow, that's a mouthful! Adrienne Grace Rachel Allsworth?"
John nodded.
"Has a nice ring to it, actually," Mike said.
"Adrienne Watson's good enough for me."
"So are you going to take the job then? It sounds like you have some misgivings."
John shrugged. He squinted at the late afternoon sun. "Well, part of the reason I thought of joining the army was because of all the action and excitement, you know? Working in A&E all these years has given me a similar kind of experience. The non-stop, life-and-death activity... it energises me, keeps me focussed. I don't want to lose all that. I'm afraid if I accept this promotion, that I'll get bored. At the same time, I can't justify turning it down, not with the twins on the way."
John swallowed as he struggled to express himself. "I mean, don't get me wrong, Mike. I love my life. I really do! I've been so lucky in so many ways. But there's something… somehow, I can't help feeling that there's something lacking. That I'm missing out on something important." He sighed at his lack of eloquence. "It's hard to explain."
Mike bit his lip thoughtfully. "I understand where you're coming from, mate, I really do. It's that age old 'road not taken' conundrum. I think everybody experiences it, even people like you and me who've been lucky enough to get all we ever wanted."
John chuckled. "Yeah, that's about right I guess."
"Oh hey!" Mike straightened up in his seat, fresh energy infusing his voice. "I just thought of something. There's this weird bloke that's been coming around lately to the lab at Bart's, you'd probably find him interesting. Care to come back with me and meet him?"
A spark of curiosity lit John's eyes. "Interesting in what way?"
Mike chuckled. "To you? Many, I would imagine. Let's just say that he's testing bruising patterns on corpses by whipping them with a riding crop."
John lifted an eyebrow. "A riding crop, seriously?"
Mike nodded enthusiastically. "Would you like to come meet him?"
John sighed, a look of regret crossing his face. "I would, but I can't - not today. I have teaching duties as well, and I'm scheduled for a lecture in an hour. I'd best be getting back to the hospital. Maybe another time."
2.
When Captain John Watson was shot in Afghanistan and honourably discharged from the army, he was instructed to attend mandated therapy three times a week. All the doctors, including John himself, knew that his limp was psychosomatic, and that fact, along with all of the other comorbid conditions such as depression, post-traumatic stress disorder and nerve damage, indicated that his treatment must include psychological assessment. So John signed his discharge papers, collected his pension, settled into a tiny bedsit - and promptly threw away his anti-depressants and his therapy appointment reminder. He had no intention of spilling his guts to a stranger and having his head shrunk.
So he spent his days surrounded by the same four walls, obsessively searching online for available surgeon positions. He knew that it was only a pipe dream; there was no way he would ever pick up a scalpel again, not with his trembling dominant hand. But he'd rather pretend that he still had a future than face the cold hard reality stretching before him into eternity.
The illegal Sig Sauer mocked him every time he opened his desk drawer to take out his laptop.
He wasn't interested in dealing with the world - he was interested in escaping it. Escape from the colourless existence his life had become, from the unending drudgery he saw as his future, from the unrelenting guilt he felt every hour for the men who had died because he couldn't save them. Just taking breath from one minute to the next felt exhausting, and the only thing he had to distract him from it were the chaotic thoughts swirling around inside his brain. He knew that a bit of sunshine and fresh air would help to invigorate him, but he couldn't dredge up either the physical or the mental energy to even put on his shoes, let alone put one foot in front of the other and walk out the door.
Aware that his own worst enemy was himself, he still had no capability to drag himself back from the ledge.
Two months after his discharge, he made the ultimate escape when he gave in to his gun's siren call and put it to its final use.
3.
Sherlock Holmes. Unusual name to match the unusual man, John thought as he made his way back to his bedsit. The rhythm of his cane hitting the pavement a beat before his feet was as familiar to him now as the sound of his own voice. He frowned at the thought. Lately his life seemed to stretch out in front of him like a bleak landscape that went on forever. Maybe he needed something to shake things up a bit. This Sherlock Holmes seemed like an interesting enough character, and Mike Stamford had vouched for him. Even though he didn't know the guy from Adam, perhaps it would be worth going out on a limb and meeting up with him. It certainly couldn't hurt to go and just look at the flat; going didn't mean he'd actually agree to move in. It would be something to do - something different. A reason to get out and about besides grocery shopping and therapy.
For the first time in many months, John Watson crossed the street with a spring in his step and hope in his heart.
The next day flew by in a haze of anticipation. John could feel it in his bones; this was the beginning of a brand new adventure. He spent hours looking up anything he could find on "Sherlock Holmes" on the internet. There was surprisingly little information, but what little there was set John's heart a-fluttering as he drank in every word. He wrote his most detailed blog post yet, fingers flying over the keys as he attempted to describe the meeting and the man that had so captured his imagination.
At 4 p.m exactly, he posted his entry with a flourish and shut his laptop down. Only three more hours until he needed to meet Mr Holmes, but John found he couldn't sit around for that long. He needed to get rid of all the nervous energy that had his leg bouncing up and down all afternoon. He grabbed his jacket and cane and made his way out into the street. A good brisk walk would help calm him down.
The chill winter air invigorated him. He barely needed his cane as he jaunted through his familiar neighborhood. Nothing outwardly had changed, just his internal expectation of things to come. The cloudy day didn't seem so grey; his interactions with fellow pedestrians didn't seem so indifferent. In fact, he caught himself smiling several times, both at other people and at nothing. Eventually his awareness of his surroundings faded away and he fell back onto mental ruminations.
Two hours passed before he drifted out of his head to find himself in unfamiliar territory. He huffed in irritation as he checked his watch. Well, nothing for it. Regardless of the expense, he was going to have to hail a cab and trust it to deposit him on time at Baker Street. He didn't have to wait long before one conveniently turned onto the street he was on.
"Where to, mate?" the cabbie asked. John glanced into the rearview mirror distractedly, meeting watery blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. A lined face, grey hair peeking out from under a cap, smiled in a friendly manner.
"221b Baker Street, please."
"My pleasure."
4.
The soldier lay on his cot, pleasantly satiated. Sweat trickled down his tanned bare chest, past the sparse blonde hairs and continuing on under the sheet that draped over his lower body. He took a drag off his cigar, holding his breath for a beat before releasing a plume of smoke towards the roof of the tent. His right arm was draped lazily over his head and his eyelids drooped, blue eyes mere slits of light beneath them.
A chuckle sounded from the cot that was pushed up flush against the right side of his own. "Don't be falling asleep on me now, Watson. We have to make the most of the time before the rest of the boys come back from patrol. Isn't it nice being the one in charge? Able to take these middle of the afternoon siestas with no fear of discovery?"
Major John Watson turned on his side to face the other man, propping his head up with his fist. He flashed a grin that took ten years off his face. "I have you to thank for that - twice. First you push me out of the way of that sniper bullet that would have ended my career, if not my life. Then you put in for my promotion. Can't thank you enough for that."
John's companion shrugged. "As to the first, I was just doing my job - looking out for my men. As for the second - that was all you, John. You earned that all on your own."
John dipped his chin in acknowledgement. "Still, I'm grateful."
The other man smirked, freckled nose crinkling with amusement. His short chestnut hair glistened with moisture, both from their recent activities and from the extreme heat. Chocolate brown eyes shone with mirth. "Yes, you've been showing me how grateful for the past several weeks now. I must say that took me by surprise. I never would have pegged you for… well, you know."
John shrugged as he took a final drag from his cigar before handing it to his friend. "Never really felt any attraction to that sort of thing before the army. My inclinations just - naturally developed in a conducive environment, I'd guess you'd say."
His companion threw back his head and let out a hearty guffaw. John's lips twitched, and soon enough he was joining in the cathartic laughter. One had to take pleasure and joy wherever and whenever one could find it, especially in these conditions.
Once the laughter had settled down, his friend lowered his voice and asked quietly, "Have you given any thought as to whether you're going to re-enlist for another tour?"
John bit his lip as he thought. "I've been thinking that I've sort of run my course here. I've gone as far as I ever wanted to go, and I've already been doing this for ten years. The thing is, I'm not sure what I'd do once I got out. Going back to being just a doctor again doesn't hold much appeal, not after all this. What about you?"
The man's eyes twinkled. "What would you say if I told you I've already got something lined up? Well, actually, I'm already doing it. Have been for years, on the side. Something that would suit you to a tee."
John sat up straight, interest piqued. "What sort of thing? Something civilian?"
"In a manner of speaking. If you'd like i can put in a good word for you, have the man in charge contact you and fill you in on what's involved."
"What's this guy's name?"
Colonel Sebastian Moran smiled shark-like. "James Moriarty."
5.
For almost two months after Moriarty's trial John watched Sherlock's behaviour become increasingly erratic. His black moods manifested more often, the violin sonatas at three in the morning increased in number, their blazing rows were happening with more and more frequency, and John had to call Mycroft twice to warn about possible danger nights. The name Moriarty was never mentioned, but John knew that's who lay at the heart of things. It had got to the point where John was about to pull his hair out in frustration.
Then there came a day when all of the manic activity and restless energy just - stopped. John woke up one morning and heard not one peep from the rooms below. The silence was unnerving. With a feeling of disquiet, he slipped into his dressing gown and slippers before padding down the stairs and into the sitting room.
Sherlock sat in his chair, legs crossed and eyes closed, hands steepled in his thinking pose. He was dressed immaculately in one of his black suits, plum shirt and freshly polished Oxfords. His hair was freshly washed and artfully tousled, a far cry from the previous few days during which he never changed out of his dressing gown and hadn't once bothered stepping into the shower.
John swallowed. He made his way over to his own chair and sat down soundlessly. The flat was so quiet he could hear the chirping of birds from behind closed windows. The ticking of the clock was unnaturally loud, and the leaky tap in the kitchen was making itself known.
After five minutes of being stared at, Sherlock opened his eyes and stared back. He uncrossed his legs and lowered his hands to the armrests. The two of them retained eye contact without blinking for a solid ten minutes before Sherlock broke the silence by clearing his throat.
"John," he murmured.
John inclined his head.
"Mycroft and I have been making plans," Sherlock said in a rush, as if his courage would fail him if he didn't get the words out fast enough. "We think we know how to bring down Moriarty. But it's an elaborate plan, and we need to start putting it in motion soon. It's going to be very dangerous, and it's going to require leaving everything behind - your job, your friends, your home - for an indeterminate length of time. Are you with me?"
Determination sparked in John's eyes, and his mouth slowly lifted in a grim smile.
"Oh God yes."
And One Thing That Did Happen....
+1
"John."
"Mmmfff."
"John, wake up."
"Go away."
"John, wake up so that we can continue our sex holiday."
John sighed. "Sherlock, don't call it that."
"Why not? That's what it is, surely. We're having lots of sex, and I'd like you to wake up properly so that we can continue doing so."
John mumbled something into his pillow.
"What was that, John?"
John turned his head, eyes still firmly shut. "What time is it?"
"Five a.m."
John groaned, rubbed his face into the pillow and promptly turned on his side, facing away from his bedmate. "Wake me in four hours then we'll talk."
"John!" Sherlock exclaimed, offended. "On one's sex holiday, one does not waste time by languishing in bed all day long. Well, one does, but not to sleep. You should know this, you've been on one before."
"Oh my god," John muttered before turning over and glaring at his partner. "We are on our honeymoon, Sherlock. It's meant to be a holiday, full stop. We have sex all the time at home, we've been doing so for years. This, what we are doing right now, is meant to be relaxing. An excuse to not stick to a schedule, or pick up after ourselves, or cook our own meals. A chance to do things we normally don't get the chance to do, like have lie-ins where we actually sleep."
"But that's such a waste of time," Sherlock whinged. Abruptly changing tactics, he lowered his voice to a deep velvet rumble, knowing what that did to John's libido. Damn manipulative bastard.
"John," Sherlock murmured, dipping his head to capture John's lips in a quick kiss, "there are several, shall I say, procedures that we haven't tried yet." He placed a kiss on John's shoulder. "I've been researching, and I think we should experiment in a carefully controlled environment." The next kiss was a lingering one, just below the scar signifying John's gunshot wound. "Baker Street is always so chaotic, we should make use of this time and place to - test my hypothesis." Sherlock continued down John's body, rubbing a stubbled chin on his bare belly.
"Sherlock!" John giggled, swatting at his lover's curly head. "That tickles. What hypothesis would that be?"
Sherlock peered up at John through his eyelashes, grinning wickedly. "You know my methods, John."
"I really don't." John waggled his eyebrows. "You'll have to show me."
Sherlock licked a stripe from John's belly button all the way up to his suprasternal notch, planted a resounding kiss on his lips, then ducked under the covers and proceeded to acquaint his new husband with, shall we say, novel and untested techniques.
Needless to say, John Watson woke up pretty quickly after that.
Two hours later, they lay entwined together, sweat cooling between their bodies. John was tucked within Sherlock's large arms, back pressed firmly against the detective's chest. Sherlock's fingers trailed up and down John's arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Steady breath ruffled the hairs on John's nape; the sensation usually bordered on either ticklish or erotic, but this time it was just soothing.
"I never thought I would have this," John admitted in a whisper. "And to have it long-term…. I can't believe my luck. I thought I was happy when we were just flatmates and friends, but this - this doesn't even compare." He brought Sherlock's left hand up to his mouth and began to kiss the knuckles one by one.
"I thought I would have to be forever content with you as my best friend and business partner. I would have been, too, and counted myself lucky to be so."
When he arrived at Sherlock's ring finger, he traced the platinum band with his fingertip. "Then something unexpected happened. Unexpected to me, at least; apparently everyone else thought it was inevitable. What have I ever done, in a past life, to deserve you? Because I know nothing I've done in this life has earned me all of this."
"John," Sherlock huffed against his neck, tone amused and more than a little affectionate, "spare me your existential ramblings on reincarnation and other impossibilities. This is the only universe that exists, and here we are, however improbable."
"Way to kill the romance, Sherlock," John harrumphed, lightly elbowing him in the stomach.
"Oof!" Sherlock grunted, playing along. "I never claimed to be the romantic one in this relationship, John. That's always been you."
"Says the man who took me to Venice and proposed during a moonlit gondola ride."
"I planned that weeks in advance. Romance, on the other hand, is defined by rash impulsiveness, things done on a whim. I never do anything without preparing for every eventuality."
"Did you prepare for the possibility that I would decline your proposal?"
"Of course not, John. Based on previous observation and pattern extrapolation, I calculated that your acquiescence was guaranteed within a 0.01% margin of error."
John blinked. "Is that so?"
"Quite."
After a beat of several seconds, Sherlock snorted. Then John giggled. Then the floodgates opened, and both of them lay on their backs shaking with laughter, holding their stomachs and tears streaming down their cheeks. Every time they would start to settle down, one of them would look at the other, and it would start all over again.
Eventually their laughter died down, and they wiped the moisture from their faces. Sherlock squeezed John's hand and asked, "Are you ready yet to accept that this is your fate, John Watson? To live a life of high adventure, solving crimes and healing hurts, to never again doubt your purpose, to have your husband and partner by your side for always, world without end?"
John smiled.
"Amen," he answered.