On 13th August 2013, in Covent Garden, a group of fan fiction friends passed a busker. One of those friends, Jack63kids, challenged me to write a story based on the lyrics to that song.
It's taken nearly a year. Well, I did say I couldn't do it straight away but there really are limits, eh Jack?
So, for those friends that were there, and for the others that couldn't make it, the title said it all then, says it all now!
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, John, Mrs Hudson who are owned by Mofftiss and ACD, or the wonderful song Wish You Were Here which is the property of Pink Floyd. I thank them all for letting ,me play with their toys. No profit is made as I do so.
If there was one thing Sherlock had taught John, it was that his longed for adrenaline rush could be found in the most unlikely places.
If there was one thing John had taught Sherlock, it was a love of 1970's Prog Rock, despite it being the furthest thing from his usual musical tastes that either could imagine.
And neither appreciated the lesson…until now.
xXx
Heaven From Hell
John walked. Every day since Sherlock's funeral he walked the streets he'd walked with his friend, taking comfort in the memory of the chases, the nights working with the team from Scotland Yard, giggling over their ridiculous antics. He drew a piece of heaven from the middle of what could have been a living hell.
In the distance he saw Greg waiting for him outside the pub, and he increased his pace.
xXx
Blue Skies From Pain
As he squatted Arab fashion on the edge of the Bedouin village Sherlock scanned the horizon, squinting at the burning line where sand and scrubland grasses met the clear blue sky, and his mind wandered.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?"
"Afghanistan. Sorry, how do you know…..?"
Memories hurt. John had been his only friend, and he had been forced to leave him behind. Now in Egypt, he understood what it was that John had tried to tell him about the beauty of the barren desert, but none of it eased his pain.
xXx
Green Fields And Cold Steel Rails
Staring out of the window John watched the green spring countryside flash past the train window.
With the exception of Harry, John's only other living relative was his ninety six year old paternal grandmother, still as healthy and active as she had been on the day she had married John's grandfather.
Come and visit!
It was an order John couldn't refuse and as he listened to the sound of the train crossing the points and rattling along the rails he smiled to himself, memories of other train journeys – some adventures, some poignant reminders of a friend now gone, and he let his eyes close, shutting out the green fields and cattle.
xXx
Smile From A Veil
"I'd have thought this is the last place you would want to be." He said softly as the veiled figure joined him in the shadowed courtyard of the Cairo hotel.
"Yes, but this isn't Pakistan. I find the veil to be an excellent way to hide in plain sight."
"Ever practical, Ms Adler. Tell me, why should I trust anything you say?"
Irene Adler pulled aside her veil and smiled.
"Because, Mr Holmes, Moriarty set me up, left me to the tender mercies of those murderous…"
"Yes, yes, boring." Sherlock yawned. "So you want revenge – I suggest you give me the information….."
xXx
Trading Heroes For Ghosts
Cramond Village was calm, peaceful, but for the fourth consecutive night John had woken up screaming.
Rhona Watson was out of her bed and standing in the low doorway of John's room. She knew about his nightmares, had sat at his hospital bedside and listened to his muttered pleas for God to let him live, or to let him save one more life, for it not to be this soldier or that medic caught in the blast. That had been hard for her, to hear her beloved only grandson crying for those he couldn't save, but this was harder.
The name screamed out every night was Sherlock. And every night she would stand in the doorway, waiting for his breathing to slow down, for him to realise where he was before she approached his bed, sitting on the edge and pulling him into her gentle embrace.
"You miss him." She had said softly, that first night.
"He was my best friend." John's voice was a dull whisper in the still of the night.
xXx
Trees And Cool Breezes
From the tree covered side of the Hindu Kush mountain range Sherlock stood looking out over the district of Kandahar, taking in the still emptiness of the terrain before moving his eyes upwards to the clear, star filled sky.
So this was where John had discovered his love of stars and the night sky, his fascination with the Solar system.
Shadowed from moonlight, with the night breeze blowing his now shoulder-length curls, Sherlock wondered what John would be doing now.
xXx
Cold Comfort
John clung tightly to the elderly woman, knowing if he left now he may never see her again – nobody lived forever – but he couldn't do it. He couldn't remain in the cold comfort of his grandmother's house when his heart was in London, had always been there, and despite lost friends and hard times that would never change the way he felt.
So he clung to her and they both cried a little, pulling apart with brave, forced smiles as the guard called for passengers to board the train.
"Johnny, don't be a stranger love, you know you can come to me anytime."
John picked up his old army pack, slinging it across his shoulder as he stepped away.
"Thanks gran, for everything…." Turning he climbed aboard, stowing his luggage on the rack and sitting in a window seat, waving as the train pulled away until his grandmother was lost from sight.
xXx
A Walk-On Part In The War
Dodging the gunfire from both side of the conflict, Sherlock slipped into the wrecked building. He had spread the word that he wanted arms, and was not fussy how or from where.
His contact had assured him that Colonel Moran would be happy to supply whatever he needed, in the required quantities, and his prices were reasonable.
Something didn't feel right though, and he slipped out of the back of the building and into the shadow of a crumbling rear wall. He was not a moment too soon, as gunfire raked the walls, adding to the multitude of holes already decorating the brickwork.
Under cover of the noise Sherlock slipped away, finding himself a sheltered spot from where he could clearly see who his would-be killers were. Not Moran, neither gunman were the right height or build.
But his journey had not been entirely wasted. One of them was a lesser member of Moriarty's network, but a member all the same. Raising his own assault rifle to his shoulder he took careful aim, and four shots later was certain he had neutralised that particular threat.
To the soundtrack of two opposing armies exchanging gunfire he slipped away into the night, he had one more visit to make before moving on – his contact would lie to no-one else.
xXx
A Leading Role In A Cage
Life fell into a routine, working at the surgery in the mornings, the occasional extra afternoon surgery, shopping then home to 221B Baker Street.
Every month he would meet up with Greg – they had fallen into the habit at first uneasily, both wary of broaching the subject of the man who was conspicuous by his absence, but gradually the atmosphere became less strained, and both men learned to live with their lot in life.
John would never have admitted that it was hard to walk up those seventeen stairs to the flat. Once inside he would make a meal, sit and eat off a tray on his lap and think of how his life had changed.
And every day he would walk. Walk the streets he once ran with Sherlock. And smile at the memories. And return at last to his home, where he would wander from room to room like a caged animal before climbing the stairs to his room for another fruitless attempt at a good night's sleep.
xXx
Wish You Were Here
With every member of Moriarty's network her destroyed Sherlock's respect for John Watson grew. That he could have completed several tours of duty in foreign war zones yet come out of it with nothing more that nightmares and a need for excitement was worthy of admiration.
Every death sickened the so-called sociopath. It was one thing to cleverly deduce how the murder was committed, quite another to be the one to commit it.
And sometimes, when it all seemed too much, he wished his friend, his doctor, his soldier was here with him to tell him how it was unavoidable, how it's better to kill them before they kill innocent people – Mrs Hudson, Lestrade…..before they attempt to kill John himself.
xXx
Two Lost Souls Swimming In A Fish Bowl
John stood at the side of the black marble headstone, his left hand resting on the cool, smooth stone. He bowed his head and imagined that his friend could hear the words he spoke.
The train rattled across the empty Russian landscape, heading for Poland and one of the few remaining targets. On board Sherlock stared at the bleak countryside through half lidded eyes.
Despite the rain John smiled to himself as he ducked into Regents Park, knowing that Mycroft's car couldn't follow him through the central paths, that he would assume the doctor was heading home, and so after a short while he changed direction. And he laughed. Sherlock would have appreciated the humour of it.
With a grin Sherlock read the headlines. "Tourist falls from Eiffel Tower". He could almost hear John admonishing him not to take such delight in the gruesome and grim...but he couldn't help it. With a spring in his step he headed towards Gard du Nord station, and his seat on Eurostar.
John was asleep. His back would give him hell in the morning, but Mrs Hudson hadn't the heart to wake him. She just tucked a blanket around him, watched as he smiled sleepily, and then left him there, hopeful of an undisturbed night.
In the empty house across the road from his old home Sherlock watched as the shadow of Mrs Hudson pottered around behind the drawn curtains. He had seen John return home earlier, obviously tired, and decided that tomorrow would be soon enough…..
xXx
Running Over The Same Old Ground
There would be time to punch the git's lights out later, for now John was doing what he loved best – running through the streets of London chasing down criminals….in this case one Sebastian Moran. They had almost overpowered him, but he had jumped through a third story window and ran.
Neither man hesitated – they followed, along Baker Street, Marylebone Road, Gloucester Place…and they watched as he ran, looking behind him to see how close they were, straight into the path of an oncoming black cab.
Dead.
The last of Moriarty's team.
xXx
We Found The Same Old Fears
"I thought you would die"
"And I thought you had died! Give me one good reason not to knock you into the middle of next week."
"Because you care?"
"You think so?"
Sherlock smiled.
"I know so. I heard you, that day in the graveyard…"
"You were there? You listened to me….to my…..and you still didn't let me know?"
The younger man didn't see it coming, but he did see stars…marvelling at how it was just like the cartoons he had sneered at as a child…
"I almost wrote." He mumbled from behind a wad of tissues held to his bleeding nose. "Nearly sent you a postcard."
"Yeah? Saying what?"
"Wish you were here….."