Understandably, John went into a sort of depression after the fall. His best friend was dead. His partner. His Sherlock.
Mycroft paid Sherlock's half of the rent, allowing John to stay at 221B Baker Street on his own. Mrs. Hudson accepted the payment, glad that John was staying. He needed friendly faces at a time such as this.
John still solved crimes for Scotland Yard. He couldn't bring himself to stop. It was something that he felt tied him to Sherlock.
Once, John was hunting a murderer. The Yard was in the building, but John had split up from them and was in a completely different wing, following a lead.
He heard a noise. Pausing, he swore.
"I know you're there, Ferrier." John pulled his gun.
A chuckle. "Drop the weapon, Watson. You won't need it before long."
John raised his hands, certain that he was going to die. The cock of a rifle, aimed at his heart. Ferrier's grin as he placed his hand on the trigger.
But the gunshot that rang out did not pierce John's heart, rather, Ferrier's shoulder. The window behind him was smashed, a clear entrance for a bullet. Ferrier collapsed, and John ran to examine the body.
Seeing Ferrier was beyond help, John looked out the window. He caught a glimpse of coat tails disappearing down a fire escape, but they were swallowed up by the night.
Ferrier died in the hospital the next day, and John escaped death, thanks to a stranger.
It was nine months after the fall. John was coming home from a visit with Harry. It was late. He was tired. He crossed the road when the little man lit up. He didn't see the drunk driver.
Hearing tires screech, John looked up and caught a glimpse of headlights flashing. But he had no time to view his life as it flashed before his eyes, because someone was tackling him to the side. The car skid past. The driver got out, swearing and apologizing profusely.
John hit the pavement with the stranger on top of him. Blinking, he saw the man get up.
"Be more careful!" The man hissed. Then he ran off.
John didn't recognize the man. Red hair. Medium height. Bit of a cockney accent. But once again, a stranger had saved his life.
Now it was fifteen months. John was walking to the bank. Withdrawing money. Taking a cab home.
The cab pulled over. John was confused. The cabbie got out and opened John's door.
"Ever been held up by your own chauffeur?" The guy was missing several teeth. He smiled at John, pulling back his coat to reveal a firearm. John stared. Was this really happening?
The man roughly pulled him out of the car. John noticed that they were in a deserted area. Nobody around.
"Give me your wallet and your jacket." The man demanded. John refused. The man pointed the gun. Aimed. Smiled.
Another gunshot. Hit the man's wrist. He dropped the gun, howling in pain. John panicked, getting in the cab and driving off. He drove until he recognized the roads, then parked and called the police.
Back where the cabbie was bleeding, a man approached him. Tall. Curly black hair. He bent down close, speaking, more like hissing, in the mugger's ear.
"Don't harm my John."
"Who the hell ARE you?" The guy asked, clutching his wounded wrist tightly.
"John's guardian angel." The stranger said. "And the cops should be here any minute. Have fun with them. But just to be sure you don't go anywhere…"
He handcuffed the cabbie to a bike rack nearby. Then he took the man's gun and left.
He went to a small flat, on Baker Street. Across from 221B. He could see when John left and when he entered. He could protect him.
Because as long as John needed him, Sherlock would be there. Even if John didn't know, even if he didn't believe. Sherlock would always be John's guardian angel, minus the wings.