John Hamish Watson
I found a flatmate today. I should be glad, I suppose, that at least Mycroft won't continue to search for a full time carer/flatmate to make sure I don't "get up to anything dangerous". It's worth mentioning that he's a doctor, was in the army, and was trained at Bart's. That could be useful in the future.
Dr. Watson. He seemed like a trustworthy man (although from my experience, no one is 100% infallible to bribery or deception), not the most intellectually stimulating person I've ever know, but rather interesting all the same. Mike Stamford brought him to the lab, hoping to introduce him to me. Stamford very obviously in concerned about him, quite right too, as from what I've deduced he is currently considering suicide. Maybe not the dream handler Mycroft wanted. That makes him almost more appealing, that my brother won't approve. Of course, the entire idea could fail completely as soon as it came about. After all, John is a rather staid man, on the surface at least. And Mycroft will have his claws in him in a minute. If he can pass that test, he's definitely worthy of admiration.
John Watson is an extraordinarily attractive man. I do hope that won't lead to an influx of sexual activity or dreadfully dull partners (he claims to be straight, but there is something different about him-further data required) filling my-our-flat and disrupting my experiments. One can only hope he is uninterested in such endeavours, although that's extremely doubtful when one looks at his blog, where an old friend of his implies otherwise. Although that was before the war and the traumas it presented him with, so there is always a chance for optimism.
Thus begins my experiment into John's likeliness of staying at the flat. Perhaps I'll take him to the crime scene tomorrow; Lestrade hopefully will have given up on the pretence of being able to deal with it himself by then.
Anniversary
Time-16:01
Date-29/01/2013
Location-Paris, France (unwise to reveal specific details)
It's been three years. Today is the day John and I met. How surreal it is to realise once more that we won't be together for a long time. I became so used to having my blogger beside me through everything and now I'm sitting in a hotel room, debating to myself which group of criminal "masterminds" to infiltrate first. I need John. If anything, he could act as my conductor, a lightning rod of inspiration. Failing that, at least I wouldn't draw attention to myself when speaking aloud. I even left my skull at 221b. Mrs. Hudson will have kept it for some sentimental reason though. Unless she throws it away-she always has had an aversion for body parts. As long as she's kept John, I don't care.
Mycroft texted me a few hours ago, as though he thought I could forget this day. If only. I wish I could put the date out of my mind but it's harder to detach myself when John is involved. According to my brother, John hasn't left the flat in a week. It's always dangerous when he does that, but Mycroft has assured me that the CCTV is in place and that he regularly sends people to check on him a few times a day. Having to trust my brother is not my idea of reassurance, but it'll have to do. Returning to London, even just to check up on him, is risky. And I won't put him in unnecessary danger, not when I died to save him. That would be the needless destruction of the one perfect thing existing in this world.
Even so, it's difficult to stay away. I phoned him this morning. I said nothing, of course. But I had to hear his voice, if only for him to start screaming profanity down the line. Maybe he's getting annoyed at the increased number of prank calls he's recently received. If he knew it were me, would he be happy or angry? Probably a strange mixture of both. Sentiment can do that to people. He's so broken. I would give almost anything to be able to provide him with some sense of hope. But hope is so fragile, volatile, unpredictable, that it would be cruel to do that to him. I am not a cruel man. Not since my doctor healed me.
He deserves a miracle.