I got the idea for this from how John turned at the graveyard.
John Watson hated clocks. He never knew he could hate an inanimate object so much, but he did. Because the clock ticked once, and took his life, his love, his everything from him.
He knows, deep down, that this is Moriarity's fault. But John Watson, kind, brave John Watson, would never blame anything on a dead man.
So, John blames Sher-his (No one who knew John would dare to use his name) death on the clocks. If only he could turn them back. If only he could fight time, just once, and bring his best friend back to him.
In fact, he hates clocks so fucking much, he wont even turn with them. John was forever going to be the man who can only turn counter-clockwise. The only time he could truly fight the clock.
"It's my birthday again," the sorrowful man whispered to the black headstone. "My second without you. Lestrade decided we should have a party, but I'm not sure why we're celebrating. There's nothing left to celebrate, now that you're gone. I still miss you. Molly still wont talk to me any more then in passing. Your brother said I could punch him, so at least there's that. I really do miss you. Goo-" The old soldier cleared his throat. He still can't say that word, not to him. "I'll be back in a few weeks. I'm visiting Harry for a while. I have to go now. I'll miss you . . . always do."
The soldier turned (counter-clockwise, of course) and hobbled away, heavily leaning on his cane.
John opened the door to their flat (it would always be theirs, no matter what is ex-psychiatrist had to say) and looked at the smiling faces. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft and Molly were the only ones in attendance. John flashed a plastered-smile at them all. It was too much energy for him to sustain the smile for very long.
"John," Mrs. Hudson greeted, hugging the man gently. As always, John's arms remained limp at his sides. She understood. Even if he never admitted it, he loved the consulting detective, but John never got to wrap his arms around him. She understood, but it still hurt. A small tear leaked out of the corner of her eye as she remembered that she had lost both of them.
And, poor Mrs. Hudson, with her bad hip, nearly had a heartattack. She felt John shift slightly and warm arms gently wrap around her. Her eyes popped open as she realized that John had hugged her. She was his landlady, not his housekeeper. But, even though he took so many aspects of her for granted, she still owed so much to that brilliant man. She may never know what it was about him that made everyone feel indebted to that crazy man. But she did know, she didn't owe him quite as much. Because this old woman, by sheding a single tear, made John realize that just because his reason to live was gone, it didn't mean he shouldn't keep living. It just meant he should find a new reason.
"Mrs. Hudson," John greeted quietely in reply. She dropped her arms and stepped away, and Mycroft slowly moved to take her place in front to the poor veteran.
"Well, let's get this over with," Mycroft said. He had a meeting in half-an-hour, and wanted to make sure he could cover John's blow before he had to leave. John lip twitched into a breif, almost smile (and even that small amount filled his friends hearts with joy). John's arm coiled back and flew forward to connect with polotician's face. Lestrade carefully caught Mycroft after he stumbled back from John's blow, and steadied him.
"Thanks," John muttered. He had wanted to do that for far to long, and Mycroft had offered last year, but he was to depressed to even get up.
"Right, I must be going," Mycroft said, feeling his jaw where John had punched him. Mycroft was thankful John didn't punch him somewhere that he couldn't hide as easily. "Nice punch, by the way."
"Goodbye Mycroft," John replied, and everyone noticed how his eyes held an emotion other then pain and lonliness in them. Just the briefest, smallest, lightest flash of . . . fulfillment. And, as Mycroft "Iceman" Holmes walked down the seventeen steps and onto the streets of London, smiled a full-fledged grin. He felt he had, in the slightest way, made his debt to his younger brother decrease, in the smallest way possible. Because, despite it all, Mycroft had been the first to make his John even smile, feel anything but pain, let go of the pain, if only for a second. And Mycroft had finally done something good for his little brother. And that made the painful ache in his bleeding cheek worth it.
Back in the apartment, Lestrade was taking John to an abandoned warehouse, which is where John's gift was hidden. John hated leaving the flat to go anywhere but the graveyard. He can almost feels his best friends pressence when he's there.
Greg, opening the warehouse door for John, watches his suffering friend stumble when he sees all the clocks. Tick, tick, tick.
"Why?" John whispered. And as the detective handed the broken man a pair of safety glasses and gloves he suddenly understood. He never got to hit anything for his angel's death. Yes, he hit Mycroft, but that was for the betrayl, not the pain.
"They stopped him, now it's your turn to stop a few of them," the inspector told him gently, motioning for him to enter. John entered the warehouse and quickly began smashing the clocks.
An hour and three hundred and seventy-six clocks later, John walked out of the warehouse and calmly sat himself down in the car. Lestrade turned to lock up the warehouse and saw John's cane lying, abandoned in the middle of the warehouse. He hadn't noticed that John had been walking on his own. This made Greg smile. He would never stop owing the world's only consulting detective for all the cases he had helped to solve. But he felt that long bill loose a few centimeters, because the 'scary inspector' had given John back some of the adrenaline he craved, and the Inspector swore to give John a new clock to break every month.
When the Inspector dropped John off at home, he noticed only Molly was left. He stood in the door a moment before slowly walking to his chair and sitting heavily, tired from his day's adven-accomplishment.
"He was so sad," Molly whispered, "towards the end."
"Molly, please don't," John begged quietly.
"But only when he thought you couldn't see," she continued, ignoring the burning man. "He knew he wasn't going to be with you much longer, and it was killing him. He was dying, on the inside, knowing that what was about to happen would kill you. But he didn't want you to know about the pain. So he waited until you couldn't see, so you wouldn't suffer like he always did. Because, you see John . . . Sherlock loves you." Molly rose to her feet and picked up her coat on her way out. As she opened the door she turned to look back at the poor man. "In the entire time I've known him, I've only seen him be wrong once. Because, when he said you were his only friend, he was wrong. He has more friends, but that made you even better. Because you were the first person to be able to open him up enough to let someone in, and you did such a good job, he let more then one someone in. And that's why he loves you, John. Because you gave what not even the most brilliant mind we will ever know knew was missing. The only thing he could ever over look."
And Molly walked out, feeling like the long list of lies she had told John, of times she had betrayed someone whom she had come to consider a friend, shrink by one. She slipped on her coat and left the building and looked up at the window of the widow's appartment. And she saw him looking out the window and she knew, she had estinguished some of the burning man's flame. And, looking at his face, that had tears running down it, but, for once, not the sad kind, she knew she had given a dying man a reason to live.
Now all she had to do was give a dead man a good enough reason to come back and restart a doctor's heart.
But no one realized what they had really done. Everyone owed him something. John took a deep breath and looked at the mantle, which had become a silent shrine to his departed friend. "Sherlock," he whispered, testing the name. He hadn't said that name in years, he was afraid he might break it. "Sherlock," he repeated, letting the name glide gently over his tongue.
And John Watson realized something. Everyone had owed him something-Lestrade was right. And they had both lived to see the day that Sherlock Holmes bacame a good man. Yes, Sherlock had many people who owed him a great debt. But do you know what? John Watson owed him the most.
And Sherlcok Holmes owed his blogger even more, a dead man realized as he looked at the warehouse of clocks with its lone cane. He owed him an apology, an explanation, and a return.
And Sherlock Holmes was not the kind of man who would let a debt go unpaid.
I watched 'The Reichenbach Fall' four times already, and cried everytime. I might make it a two-shot and add a reunion with John, or a full story, with his reunion with everyone. Reveiw if you would like me to. Thanks.