It was quiet. Quieter than what John would consider normal, especially for 221B, Baker street. Except, of course, he knew he would have to adapt to this level of noise, now that the one man it got its liveliness from is no longer. He died four months to the day, yet his coat still remains thrown carelessly over his chair, as if he were still here, still deducing.
Still breathing.
John let out a painful sigh. Breathing had become a little more difficult after the passing of his former flatmate, his friend Sherlock Holmes. It seemed tedious and unnecessary, and he longed to just let go, to drift into a world where such actions are not needed to live; a world where Sherlock Holmes is alive, and a hero once more. John knew, just as he still knew every mesmerising detail of Sherlock's face, that this was something he couldn't wish to hope for. No. Sherlock was a fraud. He was dead, and even after everything he saw, John knew nothing could ever bring him back. Not a spell, not a remedy, not some bizarre act of timey-wimey madness; not even his love for Sherlock could help him now.
He had been alone. Alone and empty and struggling to grasp with both hands the thin, fragile threads of existence, yet Sherlock had appeared, like a brilliant, arrogant miracle, and made him better. Things had been good for John, for a little while, at least. But now he was alone, and empty once more.
Somewhere in the distance, he heard a phone. It was coming from the kitchen, yet he felt compelled to stay where he was, resting on his chair, nursing his leg which had reverted back to its old ways, his eyes locked on the seat where his best friend once sat, and would never sit again. A part of him believed that maybe, just maybe, if he stared long enough at the old chair, he would perhaps catch a glimpse of another life, another time, one which Sherlock was alive and they were together. As far as priorities went, John classed that far above something as wearisome as a phone call; even though he knew the only people who would want to call him now were of utter importance.
"John!" came the kind, motherly voice of his landlady, Mrs Hudson, who was, as of late, the only woman in life his. Before he could even consider bringing himself to reply, she appeared through the door, looking mousey and warm, just as she always did. "The phone's ringing, my dear. I can hear it from downstairs. Can't you? Oh, don't worry, dear, I'll get it if you want." John managed a slight nod and a smile, perhaps mistaken for a grimace, and she toddled over to the kitchen, grabbing the phone with surprising energy for her age.
"Hello? . . . Oh! Hello, dear! . . . Oh yes, I'm fine, thank you, Sam. You're ever so kind . . . Oh, well. He's . . . he's dealing . . . Would you like me too put him on for you? . . . . Yes, love, you too. Take care now!"
Mrs Hudson reappeared from the kitchen and handed John the phone. For just a second, John thought he caught a glimpse of worry on her face, but it was only for a moment, and then that sweet, reassuring beam had returned. "It's those nice American boys who visited. Sam and Dean Winchester, I think they're called? Wanted to see how you're doing."
John pressed the phone to his ear. "Hello?"
"John!" came a deep, throaty cry. It was Sam's. He sounded worried. "John, what the hell happened to you? We've been calling for days!"
John's forehead crinkled with confusion. That couldn't be right, could it? John had been sat here on his chair for more or less the entire week, and there was no way he could have missed any calls.
Maybe I fell asleep, he thought. His sleep pattern had been damaged so severely after Sherlock, it wouldn't be a surprise if he fell asleep a few times.
John cleared his throat. "Really? That's my fault, terribly sorry. I'm . . . I'm still alive." He couldn't bring himself to say 'ok'. He doubted he would ever be okay again. When Sherlock jumped off that hospital, so had a piece of his heart, his soul - his will to live. He was many things, but 'ok' wasn't one of them.
"Sammy, put me on the phone," Sam's brother Dean snapped. There was a slight commotion on the other end of the line, and John could only assume Dean had tackled him for the phone.
Suddenly, Dean began to speak. "John, you sonnovabitch, do you have any idea what kind of hell we've been through, trying to contact you, you freakin' jerk? We thought the Demon had you. We were this close to coming back to England to save your miserable ass!"
"That's completely unnecessary!" John exclaimed, feeling defensive. "Everything's good over here. Nothing's happened. Nothing at all."
"We're not so sure," Sam said in the distance, but was quickly hushed. There was a long pause before Dean spoke again.
"John, something's happening. Something big. Now, I don't know what it is, but it's like nothing we've ever dealt with before. Whatever this is . . . it isn't normal."
"What, so you think it's some sort of . . . Demon?" John lowered his voice so Mrs Hudson wouldn't hear. Ever since his fateful encounter with the Winchesters, who had, coincidentally, been hunting for a Demon in the exact same place where John had been investigating a series of homicides in Sherlock's place, John had tried to keep his landlady in the dark as much as possible. Criminals were one thing, but John had been given a glimpse of another world, a world of the supernatural, and he would be damned if she ever had the misfortune to see it, too.
"That's the thing! From what we can tell, it isn't a Demon, or a human. It's something else, and I've got this really bad feeling about this whole thing. John . . . I'm actually scared." Dean's obviously confusion over his emotions was almost enough to make John smile. The seriousness of this situation however, made him sit up in his chair.
"What do you know so far?" He asked.
"We have a few accounts. A few people have heard of him, here and there. Not much. But it's always the same story. Some weird looking guy and a chick appear in a big blue box and wherever they go, there's some sort of freaky shit that follows. Normally it wouldn't be worth our time, except this time it is. Someone or something has been attacking the homeless for about three months now, and nobody knows what's doing it. It's like they've been . . . ripped to shreds, or something. Sam and I found this girl, she had to be about seven years old, and . . . it got her dad."
Dean paused for a moment, perhaps remembering the death of his own parents, but then continued. " The thing is, this girl . . . she swears she saw this guy – this big blue box guy, and she swears it was him who killed her dad. But we've checked everything, man, I mean everything, and there's nothing."
"That is weird," said John. "But what does this have to do with me?"
It was odd, but there was something oddly familiar about the words 'big blue box' and everything that Dean had described so far had some affect on him, but he couldn't place his finger on it.
This time it was Sam who spoke. "Everything we've heard about this guy traces back to England. Seems like anywhere in the United Kingdom is a big hotspot. You're one of our friends, John, so we need to know everything you know."
"Hang on, hang on, I don't know a bloody thing," John snapped. "It's not like I have much to go on. Does this 'big blue box' guy even have a name?"
"Nobody knows," said Sam. "Nobody knows his real name. Except him, of course. But anyone who claims to have met him . . . they say he calls himself the Doctor. Just that. Just 'the Doctor'."
John felt the blood rush out of his head. His hand, which shook continuously due to his time spent at war, grew still. He could feel his heart pounding almost as much as it used to, when Sherlock was still alive, and he knew there was only one thing he could do.
"Where are you? I'm getting the first plane out of here." He said flatly, reaching for a pen.
"What? Why? Do you know this guy? Who is he?" Asked Sam.
"He's . . . he's not supposed to exist. But he does anyway. That's actually him all over, miracles where ever he goes. But he isn't the bad guy – not by a long shot. But trust me when I say, if he's in town, then something else is, too. And that wouldt probably be the real bad guy."
There was a long, awkward pause. John hardly noticed, until the silence reached about thirty seconds and he realised the two brothers had something else to add. "Well? What else?"
"Are you sure he isn't the bad guy, John?" Dean asked quietly. John felt the room grow unmistakably colder.
"After the little girl told us what happened, she said something else. She said there was another person there, a man, and she said she heard the other guy – this Doctor – shout his name."
John shook his head, growing more impatient by the minute. "What the bloody hell does that have to do with anything, Dean?" he demanded.
Dean sighed. "John. The name he shouted was 'Sherlock'.