Author's note: I couldn't resist.

Updates may be a bit less frequent, because – well, life. One has to see one's friends and family now and then, that's how it works.

I don't own anything, please review.

There are choices and decisions that affect our lives in a way we can't fail to notice; that give it a turn for the better or the worse, that make events turn out in a way we could never have predicted. Sometimes, these decisions are important enough in their own right: a marriage proposal, travelling, moving. We know what they entail, know that they will change the course of our destiny.
But then, there are the decisions that seem so normal, and are usually seen as everyday occurrences, that the one making the choice would never guess it's about to alter his life. Usually, this type of choices is made on an utterly normal day.

For John Watson, this day was the 29th January.

He could have returned home through the park after his therapy session. If he had, he'd have met an old friend, who'd then have introduced to a man he would move in and solve crimes with not twenty-four hours later. He'd have found a new purpose in life, and, in the course of the years, a new family. He'd have been happy, some would say crazy, but still, perfectly content and glad to have met Mike Stamford all those years ago.

But he didn't return through the park.

Instead, he chose to walk through the streets, which took a little longer, but he didn't have anything to do anyway. Naturally, he had no way of knowing what had just passed him by.

He spent the evening staring at the empty blog entry in front of him, thinking about what he could possibly write down. Today had been like any other day, he hadn't met anyone, he hadn't even talked to anyone, really, expect to Ella, and he very much doubted that the therapy did anything to help him.

His phone rang, and he sighed. There was only one person who called him, and Harry would most likely be drunk right now.

She was.

"Johnny" she slurred, "I jus' tried to call Clara and she didn' wanna talk to me – she just hun' up..."

"That might be because you are drunk, Harry" John tried to explain patiently, already knowing it was hopeless.

"Bu' she – "

"Harry, you left her" John snapped, his patience wearing thin. "You can't expect her to be happy when you call, especially when you happen to be drunk. She insisted you get sober before you married, remember?"

"Your' not nice to me". She apparently started to cry, but John had had enough, and he hung up and ignored her next five calls, until she seemed to get the message. He shut down his laptop and put it in the drawer he kept his gun, probably staring at it a bit too long. He knew he shouldn't be thinking like this, shouldn't feel so utterly useless, but there was nothing else he could do. He couldn't work, not with this limp and his shaking hand – he was a doctor, for God's sake, his hand shouldn't be shaking when he was treating a patient – he couldn't even sleep properly, and he was eating less and less.

And if Ella should ever find out what he thought when he saw the gun in his desk drawer, he'd end up in a mental hospital.

He tried to imagine a different life, with a wife and children, and a house, but felt empty even while doing it, which scared him. He'd always looked forward to the future, even when he'd been in Afghanistan. And now, now it was almost as if his future had been taken away from him. He didn't know why or how, but that was how it felt.

Nothing changed over the next few months, and John was feeling more and more useless.

To be honest, he did read about one detective solving the case of the multiple mysterious suicide, right after he'd realized that there was nothing he could do – on January 30th, to be precise – but, other than that...

He spent the next few months trying to convince Ella that he didn't need therapy anymore, only to be told "Let's see".

He didn't know what he was missing, but he somehow felt that he did miss something, without realizing what or why.

Then, one evening, he realized that he couldn't stay locked up in his flat forever, not if he wanted to move on and keep living.

So he went to a pub.

After about an hour, which he spent staring into his pint – and trying to ignore the fact that the only one who seemed to be alone too was a guy with silver hair who kept looking at his phone and typing answers as if his life depended on it – he was approached by another man.

"Hey, don't worry, I'm not trying to flirt with you – but, are you, by any chance, ex-military? Takes one to know one, after all."

John, glad to finally meet someone who would understand what he was going through, shook his hand.

"John. John Watson."

"Moran. Sebastian Moran".

They talked for hours. Sebastian was nice, and he understood what John was going through; told him that "It takes time, buddy"; made him believe there was a life after the army, after all.

John gave him is number, simply because it was nice to have4 someone to talk to.

Of course, he never could have foreseen what happened next.

It was in the middle of the night, and he'd somehow managed to fall asleep. Then his phone rang.

He grabbed for it, only half-aware what was going on.

"Hello? John Watson speaking."

"John? It's Sebastian. There's been an emergency".

Years later, he still wouldn't be able to explain why he had immediately leaped out of his bed, instead of calling the police; why he'd grabbed his jacket and taken a cab; although, in his darkest hours, when he was being honest with himself, he knew why. He'd missed the excitement, he'd missed being someone, he'd missed –

He'd missed being someone people counted on.

So, instead of continuing missing what he could no longer share, he found himself sitting in a cab, urging the cabbie to go faster to the address Sebastian had named.

When he arrived, he didn't even pay attention to the fact that it was a rather run-down neighbourhood, he only tried to get into the building as fast as possible.

Sebastian was waiting for him.

"John" I'd hoped you would show" and if John noticed that his new-found friend wore a certain grave expression, he didn't think about it.

All he thought about, from the moment he was shown into the room where a young man – he couldn't have been older than twenty-five – lay hurt, crying and bleeding, was to help this young man, to make him better, to make the pain go away.

He managed to stop the bleeding – luckily, it was a through-and-through – and gave the young man some painkillers, before he realized what was going on and confronted Sebastian.

"Who is he? What is going on?"

Sebastian just nodded, apparently not caring whether John felt good or bad, and led him into a room without windows.

A pale man was waiting for him. A pale man with dark hair and cold eyes.

"John Watson?"

"Yes" he answered, not ready to disclose any personal information yet.

As it turned out, he didn't have to.

"Recently invalided home from Afghanistan, I hear".

"That's right".

"Sebastian tells me you are a good doctor. You helped out Thomas just a few minutes ago."

"I don't know his name, but if you mean the through-and-through – yes, I believe I managed to help him".

John wasn't a man who felt nervous easily; but this man managed to send goose bumps up his spine, even though, in a weird, he was thankful that his leg didn't hurt him anymore.

"Yes, that's exactly what I meant". The pale meant grinned, and another shiver ran down John's spine.

"However" the man added, "if you would ever think to tell the police about what occurred tonight, I might decide to take certain measures..."

John swallowed, and knew that he would die if he gave this man the wrong answer. True, he'd never felt alive until this moment – since he returned to London, that was – but he decided, there and then, that he wouldn't like to die, thank you very much.

The man seemed to read as much in his face, because he suddenly grinned and exclaimed, "That's settled, then. Doctor Watson, I believe we could be – useful to one another".

And, as much as John hated to admit it, when he was finally escorted home, in the darkness of the night –

He hadn't felt this alive since he returned from the war.

And he didn't think anyone else would make him feel as alive as Sebastian and his weird employer – he'd decided that "employer" was the best description he could come up with, concerning Sebastian's "friend" – had done in a few short hours.

All that was left to do was to accept his lot.

Author's note: Would it be weird to say I got this idea from a oneshot I wrote? I guess it would be. Anyway, I got it more from a review of a oneshot, so I guess it's alright.

I hope this isn't too similar to "Hiding In Plain Sight", but John isn't Moriarty in this, he's the wonderful John of the series, just broken and lost and searching for a purpose. Well, doesn't that make everything so much better?

Did the opening work for you? It's not my usual style.

And I know that it is a common point of view in the fandom that Sherlock chose the wrong pill, or that Jeff Hope only had poisoned pills, and that without Sherlock John would have killed himself, but frankly, then this story would have been awfully short. And something close to normal, which my stories will never be, I fear.

Btw, you wanna make my day? Leave a review, and do the same on my story "Acquainted with the Night" – I'm sorry, but I'm so sad that this story has no reviews whatsoever.

Forgive the long author's note.

I hope you liked it, please review.