It was a cloudy day in the city of London. The sky was a dark grey, there was a slight breeze, just an overall gloomy day. Especially for a certain man. This man who had seen war. This man who had seen blood. This man who had seen death. This loyal, strong, and wise man. He wore his regular jumper and jacket, his blonde hair nicely combed. His face was aging, but still had a young sprit in his eyes. His eyes yearned for adventure and danger. This man was known as Doctor John Watson.
Doctor Watson walked through the gloomy streets of London. He walked slowly giving himself the much needed time to think. Citizens rushed passed him, trying to get home, yet Watson had no urge to get home soon. He needed to be out. He looked to the sky, noting the darkness. He sighed. "Looks like it'll rain…again." He went forth. He'll get home when he gets home. Right now, he needed to think. He needed to think about a certain other man. One of which he shared a flat with. Oh yes, the great Consulting Detective, Sherlock Holmes. What about this Sherlock Holmes? Why must Doctor Watson spend so much time thinking about him in a negative sense? The great Detective Holmes is the best friend of the army doctor. So what's the issue?
The night before, the two men had a dispute. "How can you not care if her life is in danger or not?" John exclaimed, face getting red with irritation. Sherlock sighed, crossing his arms and leaning against the door frame of the kitchen. "I've told you before, John. Caring is not an advantage. It clouds your judgment to see the most logical- and sometimes obvious- conclusion or solution to the problem." John started rubbing his temples. Calm down, don't snap. He repeated in his head. "Listen, I can -somewhat- understand that logic, but I know you care about some people." Sherlock huffed out a laugh. "No, who on Earth would I care for? Let alone who cares for me?" John froze. His heart sank and he turned pale. He turned around and started to head for his room. Sherlock followed, "John." The doctor turned around sharply and glared at the consulting detective. "I do, Sherlock. I do." He stormed up the stairs, entered his room, and slammed the door shut.
John shivered at the memory. He couldn't believe that Sherlock didn't care about him. John felt like a lost puppy now. Following his owner wherever he went, always staying loyal, but only the owner couldn't care less about the lost little puppy. John's thoughts were interrupted when he felt a wet drop hit his head. Then another on his hand, then another on his forehead. It then started to gently drizzle. The drizzle quickly turned into a light rain, then a downpour. John sighed once more. "Guess I better go home." He dropped his head, making his way towards 221b Baker Street.
Once he arrived at the flat, the rain had gotten heavier, followed by sudden flashes of lightning and roars of thunder only seconds apart. He hesitated before unlocking the door, not wanting to talk to the great detective when he walked in. He entered the building, thankful for the heat. He hung his drenched coat on the rack and made his way slowly upstairs. He would've went straight to his room to avoid Sherlock, but he wanted his tea. It calmed him down. So bloody British of me. he thought as he ascended the stairs.
He entered the room to see Sherlock standing at the window, looking out watching the storm. He had his blue robe hanging loosely on his frame. He wore light grey sweatpants and a white night shirt underneath the silk robe. John walked to the kitchen, pulled out the kettle, poured the water, set it on the stove, and waited for it to heat. The whole time, Sherlock just stared out the window. Typical. Thought John.
The tea was already done and prepared. John decided to sit in his armchair and read the paper. It wasn't like Sherlock cared enough to solve this tension between them. So why should he care? That's the question. If Sherlock doesn't care, then why on Earth should John put his heart out there and care for the world's only Consulting Detective? Because he's is your one and only true friend. Remember shooting that cabbie for him and not even knowing him for 24 hours? The doctor thought to himself. He ran a hand through his still wet hair. Then the detective spoke:
"What I said yesterday, I didn't completely mean it. There is one person I do truly care about." The detective then turned around. He had bags under his eyes and his curly black hair was ruffled and sticking out in all different directions. Obviously, he hadn't gotten any sleep and he had been stressing this whole time John had been out. John saw all this in one glance at the taller man. His deduction skills were rubbing off on the older man. The only thing John could say was "Oh?". Sherlock looked nervous. "You know I care about you, John. I didn't mean to come across like that. You're my first and only friend. I am sorry." John looked at him with wide eyes. The world's only Consulting Detective just apologized to him. John smiled. Everything was alright now. His feelings were reciprocated. He wasn't the lost, neglected puppy anymore. He was the loyal army doctor and friend of the one and only Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock saw the genuine smile let go of the breath he didn't know he was holding. He looked out the window once more. "That's quite the storm." John snickered. "Yep, sure is." Everything was fine. It was all fine…