Written by: John Watson
Time: 00:34am.
Ever since we met, I've always seen it as my job to keep Sherlock under control. Otherwise, he goes too far and hurts himself. It's not his fault you see; he just can't resist the temptation. I learned that with the case most people refer to fondly as "A Study in Pink" our first case, the one that brought us together, united us. Without Sherlock's shenanigans, we may have remained just roommates but I like to think that's not true. I like to think there was some kind of force, fate, if you want to call it, which drew us together. Or forced us together, like some kind of dough stuck together, each piece having a forever lasting impact on each other.
I remember how we met, as many others will. I was suffering from post traumatic stress and I like to think I was having problems with my leg but actually it was just to do with the trauma. Sherlock proved that, but then again, Sherlock proves everything.
I was talking to an old friend in the park, drinking coffee. A simple flippant remark changed my life forever:
"Who would want me as a flatmate?"
"That's the second time today I've heard that." Remarked my friend, someone who had worked with me in the army. He took me down to a fancy looking lab, all surfaces shining in the light. That was the first time that I laid eyes upon Sherlock.
He was a tall man. With cheekbones that could be used as knives, prominent, the kind models would kill for. He had boticelli locks on his head, deep chestnut and piercing blue eyes like ice. They again looked like some sort of weapon. He was smartly dressed and puzzling over some microscope.
The rest, you already know, Sherlock and I decided we could afford a flat together in central London, a handsome looking 221B Baker Street (that he had already decided to move into, and so, fill with all his files, work and anonymous body parts). He told me he merely wanted me as someone to voice his opinions to, because talking to a skull in public looks slightly dodgy, but I always like to think that he genuinely wanted my opinion and to talk to me. I like to think that he was interested and that he cared, probably because no one else did and for once in my life…it made me feel important. He proved what I had being denying to everyone in the world. My leg was not suffering from pain, but from the stress of returning from the battlefield.
He solved the case of a supposed four point suicide. How could four, totally unlinked people, be linked by the way that they killed themselves? Sherlock solved it in the amazingly scarily dangerous way he does everything. A cabbie, seemingly harmless in appearance picked people up and escorted them at gunpoint to empty areas, forcing them into taking one of two pills. One deadly. One harmless. I remember hurriedly tracking Sherlock down, terrified for his life, which was bizarre, I had only known him for a few short days. Something inside me though was incessant, save Sherlock…save Sherlock…save Sherlock.
God, the memories haunt me. I raced up the peeling stairs mind racing, heart dancing, breath pumping. It was terrifying to me that I realised I was in the neighbouring building.
"SHERLOCK!" the words echoed around me, from my lungs beating in my ears. Without thinking, I pulled out my gun and killed him. What terrifies me more than the fact I killed that man, yes, it hurt me but he was a killer and would've killed again, and was about to fall through death's door. No, what terrifies me, what keeps me awake at night was the fact I am utterly convinced that Sherlock would've taken that pill. He denied it, I know, but I am so sure that he would've taken it. The mystery runs away from him, skipping out of reach, it taunts him. I know it does.
That's what terrifies me. That one day there'll be a mystery that he'll go too far to solve.