The Man Who Defeated Death: Prologue
It wasn't the nightmare that scared John. Nor did the death of his best friend. That hurt him, not scared him. It was reality that scared him.
He could pretend all his life that he had never met him. He could carry on living his pathetic little life, no distractions, no disruptions. Nothing. But that, he decided, was what truly scared him. The thought of life without him, without the chaos in his wake, it was no longer normal or average. It was weird.
"Why?" the question escaped before he could stop himself.
"Why?" he said it again, asking the silence shrouding the room.
He threw his arms up into the air and asked again, louder. He wanted, no needed, and answer. His eyes began to well-up with tears, glistening in the light cascading through the window.
He had questioned several things, all separately, all different. This time was no different.
It had been 6 months since his death and he had finally moved back into their flat. The flat that possessed his furniture.
"John, dear." Mrs Hudson entered the room bearing tea. "You have a visitor. a young lady. Should I let her come up?"
John stared into the fireplace for a moment and turned to look at his land lady
"Sure" he answered. it could be no worse than the previous times he considered. The landlady left, placing the tea tray down onto the small table next to the door. As she did so he heard her greeting this new theorist, ushering her up the stairs. He moved then, making his tea and stirring it to maintain his serenity.
"Dr Watson? I'm Adelaide Garner, I've just moved in down the street," The woman could have barely been in her twenties and resembled the appearance of a 16 year old. Small in height, fair with hazel eyes and a brunette with an unusual tinge of red whenever her hair caught the light.
A spark of hope in a room full of despair.
He nodded a greeting in reply and gestured to the chair in front of him. The chair so often occupied by his late friend. She studied him for a moment, contemplating whether to sit there or not and upon deciding not to, instead pulled the foot stool beside him and seated herself, placing her hands serenely in front of her, closed together like he would have done.
"Why did you sit there?" His question didn't seem to surprise the girl who merely looked him in the eye and proclaimed "That is irrelevant for now." And positioned her hands in front of her face so her fingertips only lightly brushed against her nose.
John took a deep breath and took a sip of his tea, ignoring the burning sensation as it met his lips.
"Oh my…" she stated " You really are as bad as I thought. You need someone." The words struck a nerve he had tried to hard to bury. A nerve only one person had ever hit before.
"You have no right to say that." He began pulling his form up to try and intimidate her, "You cannot tell me I need someone when you hardly know me. i will not give you the information you are looking for with that 'scoop' you're working towards, so if that is all I suggest you leave."
Adelaide moved very little, simply blinked and shifted slightly. The air of superiority was drawn towards her. In a way she reminded him of his friend, but there was something odd. She seemed like she was not only the friend he missed but the one he hadn't found. The one verging on normal.
Her intake of breath startled him until she spoke.
"I don't need the information Dr Watson. I already know half of it." She started "You are hurt and you need help, but not from a psychiatrist, from a friend. I know you better than you think. You're trying to deal with this, you aren't doing well though. For example, you're drinking tea, not coffee. You haven't cut your hair in about 2 months, nor have you shaved within the last week as you're too busy dealing with the return. Your shoes aren't dirty, instead they aren't your usual shoes, they aren't something you'd wear at all. Your eyes were glistening when I walked in and you were stirring your tea, even though you don't take sugar, indicating a distraction to avoid me and your thoughts. Need I go on?" She grabbed her scarf and coat as she passed the doorway, popped her head back around the frame and said "Oh, and I am not a journalist, I do live two doors down, 225 to be exact."
John watched her leave, in shock. When she left he stood to put his cup back on the tray and accidentally stood on a small square of paper that crackled under his weight.
Picking it up he opened it and read:
He's Alive