A/N: I was struck with the concept of what would happen if Sherlock and John never met and I wanted to explore this in a short piece. I'm not too sure what genre this story would fall under, but I suppose a mild angst. Anyways, I hope you enjoy the story. Any reviews are gratefully appreciated. Thank you and have a nice day!
I do not own any of the characters, nor am I making any profits of this.
"You're a very lucky man, Dr. Watson. An inch to your right and you would have suffered a more severe injury. Might even have to be discharged..."
John H. Watson, M.D. was sitting in a makeshift bed with a bandage tightly bound around his left shoulder. He wasn't given much morphine, for medical resources were scarce here, but he was as true to a soldier as he was an army doctor. John leaned back, grimacing slightly at the pain, and closed his eyes. He could faintly hear the gunshots blasting a few miles away as he tried to tune the world out and get some peace.
He avoided remembering the moment he got shot. How careless he had been to venture a little too far away from the group and not realized that someone was stalking him. The worse part wasn't seeing the dark spot on his shoulder spreading like watercolor ink on wet paper, but the thought of dying out there in the field, alone. How depressing it would have been to slowly bleed to death without anything to do, but wait. He had called for help several times, but became very weak soon. As he was about to pass out, someone stumbled upon him and noticed that he was still alive, carrying him back to the base. He never did found out who rescued him.
John thought of many things; friends, family, comrades, patients... and himself.
What if the bullet had done more damage than it had? Where would I be then? The latter question was bothering him the most. As a doctor, he knew that there was a very high percentage that he would have died of blood loss had he been shot closer to his heart, but in the best case scenario, he would have probably been left with all, but a limp and some trauma. But what would he do after that? John had been serving in the British Army for many, many years now. It was his life. As twisted as it might seem to some, he had grown quite fond of the chaos and the life-or-death situations in which he had to constantly stay on his toes. Before the army, John had graduated from the University of London as a young, inexperienced man. Soon after, he set on a train and never looked back.
"Why don't you get a flatmate and rent a place in town together? It's more affordable that way and certainly a change in scenery," Mike Stamford asked as he spoke, out of the blue, one morning while visiting an old acquaintance at a laboratory in the St Bartholomew's Hospital.
"Dull," the man simply replied, not bothering to take his eyes away from the microscope. Stamford stared at the profile of a man who called himself a 'consulting detective', apparently the only one in the world.
"Now, how is that dull?" he said, attempting to get more than a mere word out of the detective's mouth. After all, it had been a few years since he last saw him and while visiting London, he decided to stop by and check up on him, quite sure that the man was either already dead or in isolation, given his lifestyle and background. Stamford was surprised to find that the detective was up and well. He was still emotionless as before, though, so maybe nothing has changed.
"I don't need to babysit some flatmate who would most likely tell me what to do or watch crap telly all day. It bothers my thinking concentration and lowers the IQ of the whole street. Ah, that's a good one. I should remember that. Maybe I'll use it on Anderson," the detective spoke quickly, only looking away from the microscope for a brief moment to jot down a list of data and observations.
"At least consider it, would you, Sherlock?" Stamford sighed exasperatingly. He needs someone. That's all, he thought, someone who understands him and stays by his side.
Sherlock did not reply, nor acknowledged the question, so he said before he left, "I'll be back in a couple of days for your answer. Good day."
As the door almost close behind him, Stamford heard the voice of the consulting detective saying, "Who would want me for a flatmate anyway?"
And with that, the door shut.
One month later, John came back to London on a two week R&R vacation from Afghanistan. He stayed at Harry's place and as glad as he was to see her, he did not tell her of the near death experience, not because he knew she would worry herself to death, but with the divorce and all, Harry was barely sober as it was.
Having nothing else to do, John decided to visit one of the few friends he had left since being deployed to Afghanistan, Mike Stamford. He went to his apartment and rang the doorbell twice. It creaked open and he saw the slight of a face peering out. A tired-looking eye widen and the door immediately swung open.
"John? John Watson? My God, it's really you!" Stamford grinned, "It's been so long. Come in, come in."
John smiled and walked into the neat living room. He took a sit in an armchair and Stamford took the one opposite of him.
"How's life, old friend?" John said, "It has been years since I last saw you."
"Ah, same old, same old," Stamford replied, "I've been taking on various sort of jobs: accounting, business managing, and once, checkout operating at a supermarket."
They laughed.
"Well, we certainly are in need of people like that. Those self-checkout machines are quite a pain in the arse. So how is life recently? Anything new?" As John spoke, he notice that Stamford's face fell slightly and his eyes dimmed.
"Yes, I suppose. An acquaintance died recently, just last week. He was poisoned by what the media is calling a 'serial cabbie.' Poor thing. Sherlock Holmes was his name, and he was the most brilliant man I've ever met. One moment he does something amazing, the next, you just wanted to strangle him. You would've like him, John. The only problem was that he didn't know when to stop. Sherlock was always living life on the edge with no one to hold him back." Stamford led out a small sigh. He then stood up, walked to the kitchen table, and came back with two newspapers. He handed them to John.
"Death Strikes Again at Local School Building," John read, "Another mysterious death of a detective who appeared to have committed suicide, but Inspector Gregory Lestrade and Scotland Yard believed otherwise." He put the paper down and picked up the second one.
"Serial Cabbie Found to be Responsible of the Mass 'Suicides'," John glanced at the headlines, but did not read on. He couldn't help, but look back at the first paper and notice a small image of the victim. He was quite fair with short dark curls, high cheekbones, and cold, intelligent eyes. He looks like someone who had many enemies, John mused, but there's something likeable about him...
John put down the paper he was holding, thanked Stamford, and left the building. Two weeks later, he left London once more.