Disclaimer: I don't own anything Sherlock.
This is a weird idea that I came up with, that at first I was going to make a one-shot. But then.. it kind of ran away with me. So maybe I'll just have to limit it to a few chapters. Of course, I say that, but I already have an idea of where I want this to go, and knowing me, it will last more than a few chapters. Hope no one minds!
Reviews/comments welcome!
With a small groan and a realization that John should not have spent the night on the couch, he rolls onto his back, wincing a little as he lifts a hand to rub it across his forehead. After taking a deep breath and thinking he hears some shuffling around, he says, "Sherlock, don't suppose you could be bothered to grab me a glass of water?" he asks to the air, and when there's no answer, he sighs. "Sherlock?" He asks, opening his eyes and sitting up. At first he doesn't take in his surroundings, but finally he notices that not only is the flat bare of a certain consulting detective, it's a completely different flat. Panicked, John tries to remember if he drank last night or went home with someone without realizing it. But no, he distinctly remembers falling asleep on the couch.
It had been an odd few days, with John going with Sherlock to his parents' for Christmas. The implications that they were a couple, which was embarrassing and far from the truth. But with all the stories the ex army doctor realized that he wished he could have been there to help Sherlock when he was younger. To be a friend to him. Even if it was only through University which seemed to be the man's hardest time, and where he picked up his drug habit. If John could have saved him from that just by being his friend, how amazing could the man have become?
And almost immediately after coming home, they had a case. Murder doesn't stop for the holidays afterall. And they were running all around London, until they finally caught the killer, who turned out to be a young man, university age actually. And of course that made John wonder about Sherlock, how easily it would have been for that brilliant mind to turn to crime, instead of becoming the world's only consulting detective. Those were the thoughts in his head when he fell asleep, and now he's waking up in a place that is definitely not Baker Street, and strangely devoid of said consulting detective.
Pulling himself together, John gets up off the couch, realizing he's not quite as stiff as he should have been even if his shoulder does hurt a bit. He moves through the small flat, being able to check the kitchen/sitting room area at a glance since they are only separated by a small counter area at the kitchen, the one bedroom and bathroom are next. After that, and establishing that he is the only one there, John starts to go through some mail he found on the table, finding it all addressed to him. A few bills and a few ads.
Deciding that it's high time he puts to use some of the skills that Sherlock taught him, he looks around the flat. It's neat, everything in its place, organized just the way John would organize things. The bed is made with military precision, there was an old army duffel in the closet. So, he definitely lives here. Looking around, he finds some medical books on the coffee table like the ones he used in Uni and upon closer inspection he finds out they are the exact same books he used when he was in Uni. That, along with some notebooks that have class notes in them and are labeled for each class that he's taking leads him to believe that he's not a doctor yet, he's still in medical school.
Taking a slow, deep breath, John nods a little before he puts a hand into the collar of his shirt, feeling the scar tissue there, he lets out the breath he had been holding. Right, so was still shot in Afghanistan, but wasn't an Army doctor. Deciding to splash some water on his face and calm himself down, the doctor walks toward the bathroom and does just that, but it's when he looks up at the mirror that he gets the shock of his lifetime. And under normal circumstances he might be worried about having a heart attack. The face he sees looking back at him in the mirror is one that he hasn't seen for 15 years. Some of the lines and weathering in his face are gone, his hair doesn't have a trace of gray just the normal sort of sandy blonde that he's always had. He's still in excellent shape physically, that much is apparent. His skin is still tanned, obviously from time overseas. After the initial shock starts fading, he feels the press of memories that were thus far held back by his slight panic.
Bracing himself with a hand on either side of the sink, John lowers his head and starts taking a few deep breaths as the memories slip through his mind. His childhood matches up with what he remembers, but it's when he sees an army recruiting office that things change. Instead of considering that as a future career after medicine, he thinks that it's a good idea to sign up at 18, and then let the army pay for his schooling after serving for 5 years. So he manages to be just another soldier, albeit still a crack shot which leads him to be sent out on some more special missions. He gets some training with the medics, where he's allowed to assist if he's not needed for a mission.
That lasts for 3 1/2 years, before he gets shot in the shoulder, in a similar situation to the first time, trying to save his best friend's life. He gets invalided home, spends six months in rehabilitation to get the strength and mobility back in his healing shoulder. And now, it's three years later and the army is paying for John's medical school as they promised. He'll never be a surgeon, because of the slight tremor in his hand, but then his fingers never really had the dexterity for that in the first place. He could still be a good doctor however. He stopped seeing his therapist a year ago, and his leg only bothers him once in a while, the psychosomatic limp having disappeared after a year, thank God.
And he just got fired from his last job, not because of anything he did wrong, but because the shop was planning to close down in the next few months so they're downsizing their staff. And since John is one of the newest employees, he's the first to go.
Glad that there's no one there to see him, John takes a deep breath and slowly slides down the wall of the bathroom to sit on the cold tile. That makes him 25, a University student studying medicine. It means he's never met Sherlock, all of their adventures never happened. And in a way, he's starting to think he might be a bit loony. Either this is a coma induced dream, or Sherlock finally drove him round the bend.
Never let it be said that Dr. John H. Watson wasn't a fighter. After a moment of absorbing everything, the disparate memories fighting for dominance in his head, the doctor tilts his head back against the wall and lets a few tears slip from his eyes as he mourns the loss of his best friend, and their mad adventures around London.
Not sure how long he managed to sit there, John finally stands up, strips out of his clothes and takes a hot shower, letting it relax him for a few moments as he thinks about Sherlock, feeling like it's the Fall all over again, that he's lost his best friend. The difference is, he knows that he might still exist, that he might be able to find the madman. But of course there's no guarantee that if Sherlock is out there he'll want to be friends with John or want anything to do with him at all. The first time they only met because they each needed a flatmate, and John had the fact that he was an ex army doctor on his side. Squaring his shoulders, the doctor frowns at the bathroom tiles in front of him. No, he can't think like that. He will do what he wished he could have at Christmas. The classes he has should be easy since he's taken them once before, so what spare time he has, he will find another job and then find his best friend, find some way to convince Sherlock that he needs John as a friend. Knowing him already may help in that, but it may also make the younger man suspicious that he works for Mycroft. It's going to be a very fine line for him to walk.
Stepping out of the shower, John dries himself off, then goes to collect clothes, arching an eyebrow as he sees the selection. Jeans and khakis, well-fitting from the looks of them, t-shirts, a few jumpers and sweatshirts. Not a button-up in sight. Interesting. With a little shrug, John grabs some khakis, grabbing a t-shirt and, judging from the outside weather, he grabs a jumper and pulls it on as well.
First, he needs a job, and to finish his homework, then he can think about his consulting detective.
"Don't worry, Sherlock. You won't be alone this time."