Reunion with a stranger
What it meant to be a friend had well eluded him a long time ago. Sherlock had returned to England an altered man, a broken man. A man that passed by unannounced. A man forsaken and driven out of the scarce company he had kept, to begin with. A man so ingrained and accustomed to social rejection that he no longer made any attempt to make conversation with anybody.
John knew of course that Sherlock had destroyed himself and everything and become this man for him. So, he followed him one day. Observed anew the man he had befriended once when the sky was clear and it was a different world.
He sits on a sidewalk under a cherry tree. Despite the fact that there are smoking laws in London now, he plays with a cigar, as if he is thinking of lighting it right here. He slides it idly back in his pocket and stares into oblivion. A newspaper is under his arm. Probably looking for work, probably failing to find it. A blossom lights in his hair. Sadness pervades him.
John comes closer now. He even goes so far as to sit on the adjacent bench, on the other side of him, because he cannot bring himself as yet to sit beside him.
"Good morning, Doctor." His baritone rolls from somewhere forgotten. John had known every syllable of it once, but he has long ago put that hopeful memory away. This is not his Sherlock. This is not the world he lived in. John is no longer the man he'd saved.
"Mr. Holmes…" John doesn't know how to address the Sherlock who reportedly has no memory of him.
"Sherlock, if you like." Sherlock gets up, comes around to face him. He sits on the birdbath bench. John looks at his feet. Sherlock tilts his head.
"I do remember you...Or, rather, I remember the idea of you. I hope you know how truly sorry I am that...That I took a piece of you in the process of all of that…"Sherlock's face still lacks emotion, but John can see an undertow of pain.
"No.." John is getting a bit emotional now.
"No, I don't think you should be sorry. It's...You saved my life. For that, I can never repay you." John nodded. Sherlock's face is grave.
"The flat...Where I lived. I don't have a roommate. You...You're welcome to rent with me, sir, should you ever like to look for cheaper living costs. I heard your flat was mostly gone after that last row with those arsonists. My fault possibly. I am the one who had them put away. I'm sorry for that as well. I should like to say I am sorry to you a hundred times a day and it would never be enough. I suppose it's better we've only met this once, then." Sherlock smiled grimly. Nodding, he rose to stand.
"I could...I may like to...Look at the flat." John didn't understand why he'd say that. He remembered living there before. Oh God, how he remembered. That was the first true home John Watson ever had. Sherlock vaguely remembered that he did as well, but he said nothing of the sort.
"If you'd yet like to, then here is a spare key. I'm told it used to belong to you. Funny thing that I'm giving you the key to your old home as if it was a gift." Sherlock passed it on. John let his hand linger near his friend's hand for a long moment. Sherlock looked concerned.
"I...Well, for me. For me, it is a gift. Sherlock...I want you to understand something, please. You see, when...Back then. You and I...We were more than friends." John felt his stomach roll when Sherlock's eyes grew wide with worry.
"Well, no, not like that. I mean, more like brothers. We were practically family once. And so...So, any contact that we can keep between us...Would be flattering for me." John smiled. Sherlock tilted his head backward.
"Mm...They told me you'd say that. They also told me not to come near you. Of course, the key is yours. So, I've just given it to you. Right or wrong. Good day, then, Doctor Watson." Sherlock rose wistfully.
John followed him.
"Sherlock."
So much pain and memory in that one sentence. Sherlock turned around. His cheeks were pinched in an expression that said he'd known him all his life from that single use of his name. Still, the cherry blossoms floated downward in their funeral march to the pavement and clung to them both like tears captured in time, crying for them. They were quiet...So quiet. And still.
"I...I hope so much...So often...that someday I will remember you. And every now and then, you come back. It's not urgent. It's not profound. Things like tea stains left on my research papers. Things like a straight razor instead of an electric one-a gift from your grandfather. I don't suppose you meant to leave it along with my things? A nagging note I find in my rubbish bins...Something...Something like a ghost. Only, I am the one who died, aren't I?" Sherlock nods and looks at the ground.
"I think we both may have died. A very long time ago. A time that died along with us, maybe. I don't know…"John looks off into the air above them. Rain dusts the rooftops beyond this little scene. He hears London go on clipping by around them, humming like a hornet's nest. They were the reason that all of this went to Hell each time.
"Perhaps you should observe me as a stranger then…"Sherlock smiled.
"Oh no...No, I can't do that." John smiled. Sherlock understood. More sadness passed in smiles between them than ever had in tears.
"I suppose there will always be this, then. This detritus of a life half-lived. Cut short by the knives of my captors, by the hollow circumstances of your grief. I can't tell which of us got by worse. To have become strangers, we must have first gone quite mad." Sherlock nodded, perplexed now. No mean feat to render him that way.
"No...Oh, dear, no I don't think. Not half lived...No, you see,...I think you're missing some of the facts. See, we lived. All the way. Possibly far too close and much too fast. Faster than them. We broke the rules and the speed limits of their silly little lives, you and I...And...I suppose...If we crashed and burned in the end. Well, it makes sense. We were always bound to do it that way." John nodded. Sherlock's eyes said he understood.
"You could walk with me a while, then. We talk like strangers, we used to be like brothers. Somewhere in the strange space between those chapters, maybe…" Sherlock raised a brow.
"Maybe we could make it work? We could be...Something else. We could go on haunting a time that doesn't quite belong to us. A place where your blood and my tears could make a loud enough splash to be convincing." John stepped to Sherlock's side and they began walking again.
"Have you ever thought of writing down the things you think? Your words...I don't know why. Something about your mind. You seem to conduct light marvelously in the shadows you cast. There's more to you than could be surmised from passing. Perhaps I can't observe you as a stranger?" Sherlock smiled, looking off into the rain.
"Actually, I used to write your story down. No, I'm not a stranger. More or less, I'm an unfamiliar friend." John smiled upward at him as he stopped to consider that.
"My curse is to have a brilliant mind and still miss the simple beauty that is an enigma I cannot solve." Sherlock shook his head, sighing as he hailed a cab for them. John felt the blood rush to his ears. This was so alien now and yet like all the times before, when they were something...Before…
"If it makes sense, then, what is the point of riddles, Sherlock? Never answer all the questions. That's the meaning of life. It's a game, a dance. It's never over. So you said once when you were you and I was me and Baker Street was home." John smiled as the taxi swung their direction.
Sherlock paused, face suddenly terrified and intrigued all at once.
"Dear God, this is the first and last time we've met, isn't it? Hello! So much to tell you, my stranger, my friend. So much to say if we could remember who we are." Sherlock opened the door to the cab.
John grinned then as it finally dawned on him.
"Hello, then. Let's start with the days that never came, shall we?" They climbed inside the cab to talk about the things that both remembered fondly yet neither quite recalled.