A/N: I have been a long time fan of ACD Sherlock Holmes and I LOVE the BBC mini-series. After watching the Reichenbach Fall last night I wanted to write a bit of an exploratory piece. This little bug got stuck in my head and was just screaming to come out.
This is the first time I have done anything outside the Stark Trek: XI fandom. Hopefully it is well-received. For those of you who read my stories there, there should be more to come soon, once I get past a little bit of writers block.
Anyhow, hope you enjoy. I love reviews so please send some over.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. I'm doing this for fun not profit.
It had been 3 months. 3 hellish months.
He couldn't eat, because every time he thought he might be able to stomach food he could smell the nauseating smell of blood splashed all over rain soaked pavement.
He couldn't sleep, because every time he closed his eyes he saw Sherlock falling, over and over again.
"Come out with me. Have a pint." Lestrade said.
John swallowed, sitting on the edge of his creaky bed in the small apartment he was renting.
"You can't keep doing this."
John stood up, fighting down the tremor in his left hand that had returned in full force since he had lost his best friend. "You believed them!" he spat. "Sherlock trusted you! And you believed them!"
Lestrade stepped back. He looked as if he had been hit. John wanted to hit him. He deserved it. "I...did." Lestrade spoke, his raspy voice sounding more sad than John thought possible. "I wish now that I hadn't. He didn't deserve that. I knew...I know, it wasn't true."
John looked away. He heard his door open and shut again. Lestrade was gone. He glanced up into the mirror. He looked nothing like the man he had once been. There were dark circles under his eyes and his clothes hung off of his all too thin frame.
Maybe a pint would help. But not with Lestrade. He wasn't ready for that yet. He picked up his phone, only sparing a glance at the several missed calls from Molly, Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson, before shoving it into his pocket and grabbing his keys.
/
It was strange, being out. Around him, the noise of happy people and shouts of laughter buzzed, normal people living their normal lives and drinking their normal worries away.
I wonder what it's like in your funny little brains. The memory came to him so suddenly he couldn't help the small sort of laughter that escaped him. He could just see Sherlock now, telling the life stories of everyone around him, sharing a smile and a laugh with his one friend.
He took another slow swallow.
"What's so funny?"
The question, so obviously directed at him, startled him. He glanced to his left, and saw a woman sliding on to the bar stool next to him.
She was...pretty, fair skinned with light strawberry blonde hair that hung in long curls down her shoulders, and bright green eyes. She stared at him curiously for a moment.
"Ok." She said, with a curt not. "Guess you don't want to talk."
John could only continue to stare. It had been so long since someone had spoken to him. He struggled for a moment, then found his voice.
"No...I mean...sorry." He breathed. She raised an eyebrow at him. "I was just...thinking. About a friend."
She smiled. "Tell me about him."
He regarded this curious woman for a moment, perched as she was on the barstool, sipping calmly at her own beer.
"He name is...was...Sherlock Holmes."
/
They were laughing. It was strange, he couldn't remember the last him he had laughed his hard, much less with someone.
"And this was the first time you met?" she asked, smiling, her eyes sparkling with amusement.
"Yes. I couldn't believe anybody would actually say something like that to somebody. I thought Donovan was going to faint."
"Well...her deoderant probably did vaporize."
He snorted into his pint, and she laughed along, giving him a commiserating pat on the back.
He was drunk. They were both drunk. He was drunk and standing on the doorstep of 221B. And she was standing there with him.
"I haven't been here in months." He breathed, staring at the door. She slid up next to him and squeezed his hand.
"I think..." she said slowly. "I think he would want you to come home."
And just like that she was gone, walking away from him up the street to catch a cab.
He turned. "Wait!" he shouted. She turned, wavering a little, her hand on the cab door. "I don't even know your name."
She smiled under the soft light of the street lamps. "It's Mary!" she called back to him. "Mary Mortsan."
And then she was gone.
He reached into his pocket. He didn't have a key with him. Then, suddenly, the door was open, and warm light was spilling out from inside his old flat and Mrs. Hudson was crying hysterically into his shoulder about how much she missed him and all the damn noise.
He was home.
/
He woke up the next morning with a hell of a hangover and a vague memory of happiness, and realized with a start that he had not had any nightmares.
And when he checked his phone, there was text from an unfamiliar phone number
Just in case you want it- MM
They had lunch the next day. And dinner the day after that. And before he knew he was seeing her every day, as often as he could.
She was different, fascinating in her own right. She was an epidemiologist, amazingly intelligent and very devoted her work. Her wit and charm surprised him. Sherlock would have liked her.
He returned to practicing medicine, seeing patients in the clinic, even able to speak amicably with Sarah again. He moved back into 221B.
/
They had been dating for 6 months the first time Mary stayed with him at the flat. Sure they had spent many nights together before that, but always at Mary's place. She had been in 221B before, but never stayed for long. He had been okay with this. He liked not being pushed, he loved how she seemed to understand.
She was asleep on the couch, curled into his side. They had been watching a movie. She woke with a start as the credits rolled.
He kissed her. She pulled away with a smile, stood, and stretched with a groan. "I'll be going, then"
He caught her hand. "Stay."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Please." He said.
/
One day, he realized he could talk about Sherlock without feeling that terrible pain in his chest, without his stomach twisting in knots. One day he looked in the mirror and saw himself again.
He proposed to Mary that night.
/
"I've got no one to give me away." She said one night, curled on the couch of 221B. She had become a permanent resident a month ago, to Mrs. Hudson's delight.
"It's great to have a woman in the house." Mrs. Hudson had said. "And I need her nearby to plan the wedding."
He sat seriously in the chair across from her. It was true. Mary had no family to speak of. Her parents were dead, and she had been an only child.
"I've got no best man." He said, softly.
She grinned up at him, green eyes sparkling. "You could always use the skull".
/
In the end, Mrs. Hudson walked Mary down the aisle, and Lestrade was his best man.
He had never been a huge romantic, but he had never felt more in love than in that perfect moment when he took his vows and married the woman he loved.
He had thought of Sherlock, and could only hope that somewhere, his true best man was happy for him too.
/
It was strange, how much could change in a year. 1 year ago he had been sitting in dingy little 1 bedroom apartment, alone with his grief for his best friend. 1 year ago he had been inches away from hitting Lestrade before he had decided to just go out. 1 year ago, fate had brought him Mary.
He thought Sherlock might scoff at the perfectly ordinary life he was living. He was a working at his practice, happily married, living in a 2 bedroom flat with his wife and landlady.
He missed Sherlock. He missed the adventure, the attitude, the random gun firing at all hours, the smell of the experiments. Some days it was still strange to him to look in the fridge and not find a severed head or a jar of human eyes.
But when he looked at Mary, he found peace. And that was enough. Even if it was perfectly ordinary.
/
He came home one ordinary afternoon to find her curled up on the couch, quietly reading a book and sipping tea.
"I'm pregnant." she said. Matter of fact. Succinct. She didn't even look up from her book
His heart skipped a beat. He stopped in his tracks.
Before he knew it they were both screaming and jumping up and down.
/
9 months flew by. Mary's belly was swollen. She complained about her wide hips and fat feet.
To him, she had never looked more beautiful.
He climbed into bed one night, resting one hand on her belly, feeling the baby kick. "It's a boy." she said softly. "I know it."
David Sherlock Watson was born that night, on the 2 year anniversary of his best friend's death.
/
His son was perfect, a beautiful little boy with his nose and Mary's eyes and a mop of dark brown hair that was curling before he was 2 days old.
Mary had only smiled and said "At least his middle name is fitting".
/
They were having a dinner party at 221B. John had invited his colleagues from practice, and Mary had invited her friends from work. Molly was there, and Lestrade, and even Mrs. Hudson had come up to join the fun.
He stood back, away, taking in the scene. His wife was chatting amicably with Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson and Sarah were laughing together. And on the couch, Molly was holding his infant son, singing in a soft soprano to him.
He made his way to the couch and sat at Molly's side.
"He's beautiful" Molly whispered, pushing a curl out of the baby's face. "Not sure how he ended up with this hair though. He even looks like Sherlock."
John smiled.
/
He should have known it wouldn't last. His life was too perfect. He was too happy.
He was at work when he got a text from his wife.
We have no food. Taking the baby and going to the shop. You'll probably beat me home.
xoxox- MW
He got the call an hour later. Somewhere between the words "fatal car accident" and "you need to come to the hospital" his heart froze.
When the doctor told him they were unable to save his wife and son, it shattered into a million pieces.
/
They were buried less than a dozen feet from Sherlock's grave. The funeral was a blur.
At some point he realized it was night and he was sitting on the edge of his bed, sobbing in uncontrollable grief while Molly of all people rubbed one hand in small circles on his back.
"What are you doing here?" he managed to grind out. Was that his voice? It sounded so ragged and hoarse.
He heard Molly sniffle next to him. "I made a promise." she said in a shaking voice. "I promised Sherlock I would look after you."
At the mention of Sherlock's name his chest flamed. The heart the Mary had healed was broken again. He had lost everybody that was important, everything he had lived for.
"Why would you...do that?" He said, not even realizing he was speaking. "He wasn't even nice to you."
Molly's reply was simple. "Because I matter."
/
It had been 3 months. 3 hellish months.
He couldn't eat, because every time he thought he might be able to stomach food he could smell the sterility of the cold hospital where his life had ended.
He couldn't sleep because every time he closed his eyes he saw her laying broken and dead under clean white sheets.
He was shell of man, more broken than even before he had met Sherlock. He was truly alone.
He crossed the living room of 221B. The flat felt like a tomb. He didn't have the heart to put away the baby blankets and toys strewn across the room. Mrs. Hudson hadn't been up to see him in days.
He picked up the skull that still sat faithfully on the mantle.
"Skull?"
"Friend of mine."
"What exactly do you need me for?"
"I like company when I go out. The skull just attracts attention."
"I don't have a best man."
"You could always use the skull."
The rumble of the deep, familiar, voice behind him shook him to the core.
"People will think your mad if they find you talking to a skull."