HI :D
This is my alternate to the canon happening of post-Reichenbach, a sort of study into John Watson since I tend to write more of Sherlock, associating myself more with the great detective than his cute hedgehog Doctor.
Betaed by a MrRedHat :D
Notes on this piece are at the end.
Let the feels commence!
He never came back anyway.
The memories of the clear, clear day when he had jumped from the roof of St. Bart's were still etched in the memories of John H. Watson, with the fading memories of what his friend – no, his best friend – had said before he had flung himself off the building.
Two years had passed, and John had all but given up hope.
Suppressed the ache.
Didn't matter anyway.
He sat in a French restaurant, something posh, something fancy, waiting for his date. Or at least, fiancée-to-be, if she accepted. Mary Morstan. Her features were not in any way as impactful as his past girlfriends' had been, but something about the soft, gentle vibe she had given off had reverberated in the broken soul of his very being.
The dinner had passed like any other, little kisses, gazing longingly into each other's eyes...John felt the hard lump of the box pressing into his chest from the inner pocket of his shabby dinner jacket as the both of them finished up their meal.
He reached inside, into his jacket, and took out his wallet instead, to pay for the meal.
Another day, some day more significant.
xXx
They had been dating for more than a year, having gotten together about half a year after Sherlock's suicide. He had met her in a cafe, and casual conversation had turned to mutual love.
Kisses. Sex. Living together every now and then.
But every single time, John would still wake, albeit without the shouts and flailing, and only one thing would be clear to him: he had loved his flatmate.
To set matters straight, John was never gay, not in his paradigm. He was straight as a telephone pole, and had spent endless nights when in the Middle East or traveling shagging countless women. His friends at the get-togethers had always called him 'Three-Continents Watson', and they would proudly boast of the great sex they had, nights ago, and their conquests of various women.
But one man had changed all of that in a blink of an eye.
The person had broken down the barricades John had erected firmly over his past and the wounds he had endured, swept into his life like a tornado and opened his eyes in the way that the battlefield never had. If the battlefield was scarring, then Sherlock was the final blow to end it all. Every crime scene, a kaleidoscopic entity of logic and razor-sharp deductions were laid before him, and he could see how each and every murder had occurred. If John were to describe it fully, he would perhaps term it as something akin to walking in the desert plains, except that the causes of death had been carefully implanted signs stuck in the ground, or impaled on the bodies of the dead, and all in the wild scrawl Sherlock had.
And when Sherlock had left, the battlefield dulled. A gray pallor had draped itself over the whole of London, and John began to notice the very things Sherlock would have.
An indent on the left hand of a passing stranger, furiously texting away – possible serial adulteress. Scratches around the charging port indicating alcoholism.
Little details, little pieces he had never noticed in his normal life. His normal, boring life. It'd been dark, and Sherlock had been the light. Now, everything was dark again.
John heaved a sigh, and turned to face the wall again, his palms sweaty and a clammy feeling growing over his body as he watched Mary sleep, lying in the bed beside her in 221B. It seemed almost like blasphemy to the memory of his friend as he watched the rise and fall of her shoulders, her golden hair in the dark.
Three months later, on the anniversary of Sherlock's death, he broke things off with Mary.
There were no questions asked.
Three years.
He flings the ring into the Thames and never looks back.
xXx
He imagines, sometimes, that Sherlock is alive and well, probably in hiding or as a recluse of sorts. Although, he can never hold that thought for long. Someone like Sherlock, as bright and amazing as he had been, would never be hidden. Mycroft must have his hands full trying to hide Sherlock then, if he was really alive.
xXx
The news comes in June, a certain ex-Army sniper has been hauled in on various charges, and John recognizes the person vaguely as Sebastian from his army days. He blinks, reading the article and the bizarre method of his capture, and theories are pouring forth. Only Sherlock could do this, only Sherlock would, only Sherlock.
And he realizes that's what it's been all this whole while – only Sherlock.
The blogosphere and twittersphere are alive again, buzzing with #sherlocklives and #ibelieveinsherlockholmes.
John stays up late that year on the anniversary of Sherlock's death.
But after another twelve more months no news is heard, and John begins to doubt his own sanity.
Heavily.
Mycroft sends him a message, informing him of the extermination of Moriarty's network.
John hurls the phone against the wall in reply.
Why bother? he thinks. When you're the right bastard who sent your own brother to his death, he accuses, when Mycroft visits on the five-year anniversary.
That night, John breaks down as the summer heat washes over his naked body in waves and he wanks to the memory of a dead man.
xXx
He dreams of bees.
He doesn't know why, but he does. All he sees are bees of various types, and the insufferable git is standing amongst them in a beekeeper's suit, his ridiculously posh Belstaff and cashmere scarf on the coat stand, looking as if they'd been gathering dust for years.
Sherlock smiles at him, a soft, sweet smile that fades into a grimace, blood flowing from his forehead.
John wakes up crying.
xXx
On the sixth year, he feels jaded.
He's at a ripe old age of 47, still single and yet taken at the same time. A heavy sigh escapes his lips as he picks up the cane, remembering the first year, the first day, when he had left it at Angelo's.
Taking an unsteady step, he walks, stumbles slightly, and makes his way to the door, stopping only to put on his coat. There was never one anniversary where he had actually stepped out of his house, not on this day. Mrs. Hudson usually cooks, but today he decides to be brave and step out, giving her a watery smile. The woman, bless her heart, returns his smile with a knowing one, telling him to take care as he walks out and hails a cab.
He closes his eyes, shuts them tight as they pass Bart's.
And opens them a fraction.
Be brave, he tells himself. Be brave, John Hamish Watson.
xXx
Eight.
Eight is a nice number, and eight is when he's almost fifty.
Eight is also when Sherlock returns, and John is too weak to say anything or do anything, except faint and pass out on Sherlock's chair, which he had never had the heart to give away.
Mrs. Hudson no longer rents out flats. 221A, B and C had belonged to him since the end of the sixth year, a communal sort of understanding between the both of them as they support each other in the rooms' upkeep.
So Mrs. Hudson also faints, when Sherlock turns up, as beautiful as ever, albeit with more creases in his face, on the doorstep of 221 Baker Street, except that she punctuates her surprise with a shriek that can rival the banshees of any Old English castle.
His smirk is there, still there, but his gait is different, his air is different. It is broken, it is apologetic, as it stumbles across the threshold of the flat, and sinks into John's chair. He doesn't say a word, and the understanding passes through all of them that he has given up the life he once had. His body looks leaden to John, and different, as if they had aged over two different continents. When Sherlock sits, he notices the very differences in the whole being of his very best friend, the deepened creases in his face, his neck, his forehead. He knows Sherlock is only five years younger, but to him, Sherlock seems almost sixty.
John wonders what happened to the man he once knew.
xXx
A year plus passes uneventfully, and much catching up has been done, in snatches, over the occasional crime scene. Their reunion was placid, ordinary, and John has never told Sherlock of his feelings – not that he was ever going to. His eyes rove over the form of his friend, the fine features now weathered by the circumstances of the last eight years, as he sips a cup of chai latte.
An understanding passes in between them again, the flashes of eyes, as a greyish blue meets the sharp, sea green blue of Sherlock's. The piercing gaze of his friend and secret love had never diminished over the years, deducing him just as quickly as the day they first met. The only thing that has changed is the transport. It has aged.
Wordlessly, John gets up, magnetized by the silent exchanges they just had, and stands over the form of Sherlock, which no longer sits ramrod straight as he used to, but slumped slightly, the proud man taken down one peg too many.
He tucks the thinned, curly hair under his chin, and the quizzical, crystalline gaze of Sherlock meets his, and there is knowing as the hands entangle, a knowing of the transition, as the memories of them both flick back, unknowingly, coincidentally, in synchronization to the first day, where Sherlock declared himself married to his work, and to the very end of the day when John had become part of his work.
An asexual marriage of sorts took place that very day in the flat.
xXx
When a few more years had passed, John dreams of bees again, and together they pack up and head south after Mrs. Hudson passes away and the estate passes to them. They sell off 221 for a tidy sum, and part of it goes to charity while all the rest of the paraphernalia is packed up with their lives, in suitcases and trunks.
John deletes his blog five years into their move.
Sherlock Holmes is never heard of ever again.
Their lives are quiet, perfect. And Sherlock learns to love, of course, even in his sunset years.
But that was a story nobody ever told.
I have taken some liberties as to the dates, as I notice a lot of fics noting the fact that London was clear on the day that Sherlock dies/commits suicide, and I pegged it to be around the summer, especially around the beginning. According to the creator of the websites for BBC's Sherlock, which includes John's blog, they put it around the July date, when school had just broken. Knowing from Enid Blyton's fantastic books that there are Easter holidays before the term break(someone correct me if I'm wrong) my guess on Sherlock's death is any time from end?May to July, where school actually breaks so I am told. Of course, putting a personal spin on deductions, I then decided on the date of death to be somewhere around the beginning of the summer solstice, although the canonized date is apparently May 4th, 1891, taken from the Sherlockology tumblr post. [ sherlockology dot tumblr dot com slash post slash 25016715568 slash sherlocks hyphen death hyphen date]
As such, because of the general scene setting and the like, I put it on a very important date, the very beginning of the summer solstice, my sister's birthday. Yes i'm a complete ass who would put Sherlock's suicide on my very own sister's birthday.
So yeah. That's a clarification. And the bees thing was from the original books.
Just so you know.
Ta,
Wynter