It has been three years. Everyone had told him that it would get better. The nightmares would stop and it would be like he was never there. John didn't forget him, though. His friend haunted him in his dreams and drove him to the graveyard with a gun in his hand. He had wanted to pull that trigger so many times, but what would Sherlock say. He'd call him an idiot for doing something as stupid as killing himself only because he couldn't stand it without his best friend. So every night John would walk to the cemetery and stare down at the black grave with a gun tight in his hand, thinking "Today I'm going to do it." This time he didn't. No, this time he stood by the window of 221B and looked out over London. People were laughing and chattering among themselves. John wished that he could still do it, but smiling was all too hard these days.
Knock, knock
John turned slowly at the sound on the door. So they were finally here. John took in a deep breath, making his way to the door. He had found them by searching online. Of course, most of the things he had read about them he didn't believe, but he wanted hope. He wanted the hopeful feeling that maybe they could help him. He swung open the door to see two young men. Once was smiling at him kindly and had long brown hair. The other looked like he was going to be ill.
"American?" The two men stared at him, confused at what he had said. John sighed lightly and stepped away from the door to let them in. They scuttled into the room, looking all around. John could see the gleam of blades hidden behind their jackets and see the glint of a pistol. "Tea?" John asked, nodding at the pot siting on one of the cluttered tables. One of the brothers wrinkled his nose in protest but John quickly stated, "It helps with flight sickness." Both the brothers turned on him, their hands flying to their pockets.
"How did you know-"
"Know what? That you both are brothers and American? That you get flight sickness and your brother is fighting with some kind of addiction. Alcohol, or drugs, or something stronger maybe?" The brothers simply stared at him wide eyed. John felt a little spark of pride in his heart. He wondered what Sherlock would have thought. He would probably go farther with his deductions and insult the men, but John needed their help so insults were out of the question. John simply sat down in his chair and took a cup from the table, sipping at it lightly.
"I almost forgot. You were friends with that Sherlock guy," the younger of the two brothers stated, relaxing slightly. His brother on the other hand was still watching John with slit eyes. "So what gave us away?" John didn't answer at first. He felt sick. The deductions were too familiar. The way his eyes had caught the sight of the tickets poking out from the younger brother's pockets, the accents, the way the younger brother fiddled with his fingers, and the way they responded to tea. It was all so familiar, but it felt like he was stepping on hallowed ground. This was what Sherlock was supposed to do; not him. He was supposed to apologies for his friend's behavior.
"Dr. Watson?" the younger brother asked, touching John's shoulder lightly. John jumped staring into the young man's eyes. "Are you alright?" John simply turned away, staring out into the distance.
"I haven't been alright for a very long time," John stated in almost a whisper. The younger brother sat down across from him in Sherlock's chair. His face was gentle as he stared at John.
"I'm Sam and this is my brother Dean," the younger brother stated, nodding at himself and his older brother, who was still standing by the doorway with his hand wound tightly around his knife. Sam frowned at him brother in disproval, but Dean didn't pay him any mind.
"I've heard you know how to bring back the dead…." John trailed off. It sounded even more insane when you said it out loud. Sam's face turned solemn and his eyes flashed to Dean.
"Yes…we do, but there is always a price to be paid-"
"I'm willing," John interrupted determination in his dead pale eyes. Sam sucked in a breath.
"This isn't game. He'll try to trick or lie to you. Once you make the deal you're-"
"I said that I'm willing." John stated, getting up from his chair and walking over to the fireplace. He stared into the mirror, the image of Sherlock twinkling across it. He could still remember the conversation they had when it all began.
"Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"The look…you're doing the look again."
A pained expression passed over John's face, loss consuming his soul once again. He couldn't take it. He can't stand walking into his own flat only to be haunted by his best friend. He had left and ran, but Sherlock was always there. When he left the dreams were only worse. When he came back he was alone. Mrs. Hudson was gone and Lestrade never could bring himself to walk into the flat. They were all too broken from the hole Sherlock left in them when he jumped.
"JOHN!" Sam shouted, grabbing John by the shoulders. John stared up at him, tears glittering in his eyes.
"I can't take it any longer. Even you must know what it's like to lose someone and blame yourself." Sam's hands dropped from John's shoulders and he lowered his head. Dean simply looked away, staring out up into the clouds through the window. Dean licked his lips and in a cool voice he stated,
"Well, then. First you need to find a crossroad."
John stood by the crossroad, waiting patiently. He had done it. He had done everything the Winchesters had told him. He felt like an idiot for doing it, but he didn't care. He just wanted the hope that if this did work he could see Sherlock again. The moon light was the only thing other than a flickering street lamp that lit the area. There was no wind, but it was freezing out.
"So, the loyal dog comes to play," hissed a cruel voice. John spun around, coming face to face with a man with black eyes. He wore a Westwood suit and his sleek dark hair was brushed back-
"Moriarty," John gasped, glaring at the familiar man. It was true then. Moriarty was dead and yet, he's standing right in front of him. The Winchesters had not been lying. Moriarty frowned for a second and looked down at himself.
"Aw, yes. I thought you would enjoy this body. I'm not really Moriarty, just a demon that likes to mess with his customer's head," Moriarty cackled. John stared at him. He felt anger and hatred bubbling inside him, but he kept himself calm. Sherlock came first. Once he had Sherlock he could smack this…this monster senseless.
"I came here to make a deal," John stated.
"For Sherlock Holmes, yes I know," the demon sighed, eyes glinting wickedly. "I'll give him back to you, and give you three years before I take what is mine." John chewed at his lip. Three years of being with Sherlock. He wanted it to be longer, but he knew that would not be so. Sam had warned him that a demon will take your soul eventually. He knew the cost and he didn't care. He just wanted Sherlock.
"Dea-"
The wind picked up around them and John felt a chill run through his body. A strange noise circled around the area and a blue box materialized right in front of him and the demon. The demon's mouth dropped to the ground and it's eyes glinted angrily at the box. John held his head in his hands. What was going on? What was happening? Suddenly, the door of the blue box opened and a man walked out. He had on a long brown trench coat and a tweed suit. His hair was brown and sticking up all over his head. He looked young, but his eyes looked like they've seen from the beginning of the world to the end. He strutted between John and the demon that looked like Moriarty and smiled sadly at the good doctor.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, John." John just stared at him dumbfounded. Why was he apologizing? John was the one about to give away his soul.
"Who are you?" John gasped. A smiled slowly curved across the man's face.
"I'm The Doctor," the man stated calmly. "And I'm here to stop you."
"Stop me?" John asked, glancing between the man and the demon, who was now cowering by the lamp post. John frowned then, looking up at The Doctor. "Why would you-"
"He wouldn't want this, John," The Doctor began. John felt his heart clench. "He'd want you to move on-"
"Sherlock! His name is…was Sherlock! It's not he! And what would you know?! I've been stuck here, trying to move on, but all I can see is him falling to his death. Every second of my life I see that day at St. Barts! Who are you to tell me what he would want? I've tried and I've failed! I can't take it anymore!" John screamed. The Doctor simply stared at him. He didn't look at all fazed by John's outburst. Instead, he looked like he had been expecting it.
"I am the Lord of Time! That is who I am!" The Doctor boomed. His body slacked slightly and he stared at John gently. "He died so you wouldn't, John. Will you really let it all be in vain?" John went silent, tears burned down his cold cheeks.
"I…I know…but, I…I just can't…not anymore…" John stammered, but then suddenly came to a stop. The Doctor…did he say lord of time? John's eyes fell on the blue box. Maybe selling his soul wasn't the answer. Maybe time travel was. The demon straitened himself, glancing at The Doctor with…was that fear? The creature walked over to John, trying not to get too close to The Doctor.
"Do we have a deal, Doctor Watson?" the demon asked. John bit down on his tongue and stared at The Doctor. This was his chance.
"No…no, he wouldn't want me to…to well…give up my own life. No deal," John stammered. The demon opened his mouth to protest, but The Doctor glared at it with his dangerously ancient eyes and it blinked away. John stared at The Doctor now that they were alone. "What do I do now?" John asked, rubbing his hand against his eyes. The Doctor looked down at his feet and then at John's cane.
"If you want, John, you can travel with me. Maybe the time away from here will help you heal?" The Doctor informed him, leaning against the time machine. John smiled at him, but shook his head. He couldn't make this too easy or The Doctor may suspect something.
"I can't just replace him. What kind of person replaces their best friend?" John asked, allowing the tears to add some squeak to his trembling voice. The Doctor stood strait now and walked over to John. He was very tall like Sherlock and the wind blew his coat around his legs.
"John, you're not replacing him. It's called moving on. Staying like this…it's poisoning you. You just need something to get you back to where you were," The Doctor told him, holding him gently by the shoulders. John looked up to his eyes and lowered his head, nodding softly.
"Ok…I'll…I'll try…" John stammered, secretly cheering in his mind. The Doctor smiled brightly then, like a child and stepped to the side.
"This," he began, "is the TARDIS! Time and Relative Dimensions in Space!" He snapped his fingers and the two blue doors burst open. John stepped into the TARDIS, mind a whirl. "This is real," was his first thought. "I can save him. I can save Sherlock."
"It's bigger on the inside!" John gasped, staring at The Doctor wide eyed. The madman simply smiled and snapped his fingers, closing the brilliant blue doors of the time machine.