After the fall, he does not burn. He crashes but does not burn. The dreamy adventure with Sherlock nosedives and wrecks, but John emerges. Battered but resolute. He carries on. Everyday, he carries on. His shoulders may be scarred, but they are broad. They carry a history of war. A war in Afghanistan. A war in London. One wound is a bloom of puckered skin. The other, an invisible weight that leaves him aching. It always hurts worse when he forgets.
Forgets he is alone.
Forgets that he wasn't always alone.
At first, he limps because Sherlock's gone. It's psychosomatic. After awhile, he limps because he forgets he doesn't need to. That a man once made him forget his cane and leap building from building on a mad chase.
Those days, he splashes his face icy cold and makes two cups of tea. He sets one somewhere awkward and inconsiderate. He grumbles and clenches his jaw and burns his tongue on his own cup as he waits for the second to grow cold.
He lets it sit for a day or too, pretending he's too busy to move it.
Maybe it'll grow mold. He could count the days. Tally them up. Never move the cup. Let it fester and ripen into an odorous torch. A reminder every time he breathes in. He would taste the mold on his tongue.
But it would remind him of decay.
He half wonders if Sherlock would appreciate it.
But he cleans the cups up after a few days, worried that if he starts letting them mold for a reason, he'd forget and accidently wash them up without remembering why they were there in the first place.
So he battles on in another war. Healthy versus unhealthy. Moving on and refusing to let go. The soldier versus the doctor.
He is Doctor John Watson. His best friend, Sherlock Holmes, is dead. He is Doctor John Watson, and he repairs the living.
Today, John chooses not to use his cane. His rarely free hand clenches and unclenches throughout the day, dissatisfied by every object it touches. John lets it hang unused.
Three burn victims. One dies in transport. The other shipped to ICU. Most likely to die. The third, the odd lucky cat, winds up as his patient with more of a head trauma than burns. Clothes caught the most of it. Reports rumored to be the result of an explosion in a warehouse. This one, this lucky one, was only passing by. When he gets to John, he's swathed in sterile linen and asleep.
Fever. Internal head damage. Mild concussion. His scans come back normal. They'll run a few cognition tests, see that he's up to par. He'll likely be out by midday tomorrow sporting an unsightly patch.
Why then does this relatively innocuous case shake John? Make him stand in the patient's room, unconsciously craning towards the prone, gangly, figure stretched beneath fading blue hospital sheets?
John's seized by a surreal sensation of his blood crashing through his skull. Illegal firearms in civilization. Chlorine. Asphalt. Danger.
The clipboard says Peter Quince. John can see red hair curling about the man's face. He sees a ghost.
John also sees severe cheekbone stretching out flushed skin. Cupid's bow lips. The outline of a figure too slim. Lying down, the man's almost skeletal.
John knows how imposing he is once padded in silk and swirling coattails.
John leaves. He has rounds. He shakes like a dog ridding himself of water.
He returns later, loyal. He imposes on the man, crosses boundaries a doctor shouldn't. John takes up a cool hand in both of his and stares at the quiet face. It's absurd, really. He vacillates between shaking the patient awake and sitting, but it's too tempting to wait. To see if the insanity wears off.
It doesn't. Not for an hour. Not after he shoos some nurse away. His shoulders ache from bending towards the man. It's a game. He's played a lot of games. He's going to win.
The breathing's gone irregular. John's winning. Can't squeeze that hand too hard though. He himself huffs a breath.
"My eyes are fixed on you. I'm not leaving." John's words are stones dropping down a well.
Plop.
Plop.
The eyes open suddenly. John couldn't imagine they'd open slowly. It's all blues that make everything else appear sickly in comparison.
"John." It's hoarse. Like the word hasn't been uttered in years. A year and a half.
It floats through the air, crashing into John, startling him, splintering him.
He thrusts his chair back. The quiet of the room bounces the sound around. John busies himself getting Sherlock ice. He hides into the disguise of his white doctor's coat.
He freezes with a hand halfway from Sherlock's lips. The other clutches a hand that clutches back. A hand that asks Yes, John, please. Baby blue eyes all ringed with red that warn Please, no, John.
He is Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. He forces the ice chip through Sherlock's lips.
John knows that, whatever Sherlock is doing, this wasn't supposed to happen. That is why he doesn't ask him why.
"You need to eat more. A lot more," he says, running his now free hand over the sheets, down ribs and hip bones. The hospital blanket fills the crevices.
"John, I'm sorry. John, I can't come back. Not yet." He does not answer. He just pats the blanket down into Sherlock's hip, feeling the bone. He presses his thumb down and feels the faint thrum of Sherlock's heart.
It is enough.
It's okay. I'll wait. Hurry up. Thank you. Thank you for being alive. Thank you.
"I don't want to see you again in here." John straightens, more firmed up than ever. He brushes his thumb over Sherlock's knuckles and then tucks the hand into the body. "Sleep. Eat all the bad hospital food and take care of yourself. I can't punch you when you look so pathetic."
It is enough for both of them in that it's not nearly enough. But they get it. They're strong men.
When John leaves that night, he cries on the walk home. He doubts anyone notices. It's dark, it's late and barely populated. He walking straight and purposefully. He's silent. Streetlights and shop lights cast glares onto his wet cheeks, but there's nothing sad in his visage.
He sees Mary that night. She passes from confused to surprised to concerned.
"John. Oh dear, what's happened? Bad day?" He sweeps her into a hug, hands winding down her womanish back. They're remembering someone else.
"No. No. A very good day," and he finds himself carrying on and on about it.