Chapter 1
A crack of sunlight peaked through a chink in the heavy curtains of the top floor window of 221B Baker Street, the frame of the man John Watson's body tense with the early morning's nightmare, his face flushed and mashed hard into his pillow and limbs flailing about dangerously. He no longer dreamed of Afghanistan, no, it was more heart shattering than the gruesome battle field. He was dreaming of his late best friend and colleague Sherlock Holmes, he always dreamed of him. Three years before, the consulting detective had jumped to his death from the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. John didn't know why, but he was haunted by the blood that washed the streets below and the messed up face that once held the unique alien-like beauty of Sherlock and worst of all the emptiness that Sherlock had left him in, the emptiness that he hadn't felt since before he met the insanely genius man.
John woke, lying in his bed, it was an hour before his alarm to wake up went off, hey lay there wishing, just wishing that it was the sound of a violin in the early hours of the morning, the violin he used to complain about constantly. Decided that the longer he stayed in bed contemplating the more he'd sink into the emptiness that was threatening to consume him entirely, he got up and trudged dejectedly to the shower. Dressed in the morbid clothes that he always wore, he skipped breakfast as he had taken the habit in doing and wandered down to the tube station, not bearing to give even a glance at the cabs that roamed the streets, too many memories attached. Even the tube had its memories but only the one, John sat back and remembered the time that Sherlock had strode into the flat, blood splattered his crisp white shirt and face, harpoon in hand and announcing that it was tedious. John lent against the back of the seat and took a deep breath, he missed Sherlock, and he always missed him.
oOo
After work John went to the pub and sulked over a pint. On his second drink, DI Lestrade entered the pub, looking for a spot to sit, John was quick to duck his head, but not quick enough, Lestrade had spotted him and was now wading through the crowd towards John with a stupid grin on his face.
'Shit' was all that John muttered before he straightened up and plastered on – what he hoped was – a convincing smile.
'John! Long-time no see mate' exclaimed the DI, clapping John the back, 'How're ya doing? I haven't seen you in what three years?'
'I'm just fine thank you' John replied politely, 'and yes it was three years ago that I last saw you' at the funeral, John didn't say the last bit, it was too painful and had winced at the contact of Greg Lestrade's hand. 'And yourself, how're you doing?' John didn't really care; he just wanted to mope over his piss.
'Very well thank you' Lestrade beamed, oblivious to the discomfort that John was in. 'Mycroft finally asked me out on a date, about a week ago, in fact he was going to meet me here tonight'.
This shocked John immensely, enough to knock the numb pain away for a little bit, 'What, you and Mycroft? What about your wife and since when does Mycroft, the British Government himself, lower himself down to entering a pub?'
John never thought Lestrade a man to play for the other team and thought that either of the Holmes brothers would be interested in anyone that was 'ordinary'.
'Yes, well she ran off with the PE teacher and took the kids, I have no visitation rights at all because of my line of work, so I swore off women and you really can't call either of the Holmes brothers men, I'm not even sure if they're human at all' said Lestrade, who was just noticing the expression that John was pulling.
John's face was contorting into a painful grimace, his breath becoming shallow, one hand clutching his leg and the other scrabbling at his chest; he was having an anxiety attack, the psychosomatic pain shooting through his body causing John to double over and tears to build in the corner of his eyes.
'Oh John, I'm so sorry' whispered Lestrade, putting a sympathetic and an apologetic arm around John, giving his shoulders a tight squeeze, 'I didn't know you were still… sensitive'. It took Lestrade a minute to think of the right word.
'It's fine' John croaked, sniffing back a sob 'I'm being silly'.
oOo
A few hours after that outburst of emotion, John was stumbling back to his flat, well sloshed, with Lestrade and Mycroft on either side of him, holding him up. Mycroft did offer to have John driven the short distance but John had burst into racking sobs when they neared the sleek car with black tinted windows, so he resigned to hobbling under John's weight with Lestrade.
'I hate legwork' muttered Mycroft, as John broke into a mournful song that complimented the tears running down his cheeks and splattering his cable knit jumper and the snot streaming over his lips disgustingly.
'Yes I know' murmured the DI 'I'll make it up to you when we get back to your place'.
'I like the sound of that' smiled Mycroft devilishly as they stooped up the steps of 221, he fished the keys out of John's pocket and placed them into the lock.
'I don't want to know' moaned John sluggishly knocking the two men's arms away and stumbling to the door, slumping against it in agony, 'Damn this fucking leg and damn my fucking brain' yelled John tensely to the street but intending it to be to himself.
Mycroft furtively looked up to the parlour window a frown tugging at his lips gently, tugging his phone out of his pocket, he quickly sent two texts and replaced his phone to his waistcoat pocket.
Mrs Hudson, please come out and take john for some tea and biscuits, do not under any circumstances tell John about what's upstairs. I need to inform Gregory first - MH
'I just sent Mrs Hudson a text, John when she comes out of her flat she'll take you for a cup of tea, you need it and Gregory I need a quick word before we take John to bed' Said Mycroft in a tone that warned that no questions were to be asked.