John's shift was finally over. Lazily he took off his coat, grabbed his bag and spotted a free cab outside the hospital. He sped up his walking pace to catch the cab but nearly knocked a ginger-haired male nurse over. The nurse dropped some instruments but when John tried to help he quickly moved away leaving everything on the ground.

Odd.

John hailed another taxi and gave him the address.

15 minutes later the cab pulled out in front of his flat. John stepped outside and noticed a shiny new Lexus parked in front of it. The very likely owner of the car was leaning to the door, and John recognized him as the nurse previously. Strangely expensive car for a part-time nurse. The man took a cigarette out of his pocket and straightened himself.

"Got any light?" he asked. There was some strange familiarness in his dark voice but John decided to ignore it. John looked trough his pockets and found a lighter Mary had given to him as a piece of her engagement gift to her.

"Here, take this", John said handing the lighter to the man. Dyed hair, in his late 40s, not married or engaged. His body shape was hidden under a leather jacket and loose jeans but the man's face gave away his skinniness. The man kept looking at him for a while, then the lighter, and then back to John again with some strange coldness in his eyes before actually lightning the cigarette. Handing out the lighter back to John he asked, "Are you Dr. John Hamish Watson?"

"Yes, I am. Excuse me, who ar-...?" The last syllables were left hanging in the air when the realization hit the army man. His knees were just about to give in. "How do you know my middle name?"

It was not on the website. It only read in some of the most important papers and he never mentioned it to anyone. The man stepped closer, closer than John found himself comfortable with and smiled.

"I was once told to name my extremely unlikely child after it. Hello, John." The other man examined John's face closely - just like he had - expecting an emotion.

John felt a tear falling down from his eye and he shoved the man off.

"Go to hell", he limped - oh, fuck, he was limping - to the door and started to find the right key. The ginger followed him and was talking but John didn't actually listen. He went in and glared at the other man one more time before slamming the door shut.

As soon as the door shut, John turned around and fell against it, crying.

He did not hallucinate. He had not, not for two years. Not since he moved.

So what was this, then?

The man did look like him.

I mean, if Sherlock had had a ginger hair. Why would it be ginger?

John had never pictured Sherlock with any other hair colour but his own. Why his mind was failing him now, after three years?

He opened the door again. The ginger - who had not moved an inch since the door closed - opened his mouth to say something but John cupped his face non-too-gently and pulled it closer, moving it from side to side to see better.

The eyes were the same. They had the same, measuring gaze they had always had. Could be imagined.

He was skinnier than he had ever seen him. His face sculpture was sharper and more visible than John could ever in world imagine him to be.

His skin was coloured with fake tan but underneath was skin that was paler than ever. He had some new small scars around his right eye and cheeks, and some poorly attached stitches in his forehead. Definitely not his imagination.

And he knew John's full name.

And he knew why Sherlock knows it.

Only him and Irene Adler knew the story.

"You actually are Sherlock Holmes." John fell to his knees and started recognizing signs of shock in himself. Sherlock walked past him inside.

"Now that that's over with, get up, we have work to do." Sherlock stated.