AN: Hey guys, this is my first fanfiction and I'm very appreciative of criticism and advice. I'll try not to do many of these author's notes things too. I've already started on the second chapter, but will post if I get a good response. So, I hope you enjoy it. And please, please, review! Thank-you.
Bloody Technology
I had just come back from Scotland Yard, gone up to my room in the attic and threw my coat on the bed. I sat down at the foot of it, and thoughts pounded. Sherlock wasn't around anymore, but Lestrade still had me consulting with him. Out of fear I may do something harmful to myself, if I weren't kept busy I presume. He cared for Sherlock and he cares for me too, so his concern is natural. Even though he gets it in the neck for such an extension of care on my part and Sherlock's. It hurt to say that. It hurts to speak of him. Sometimes, I forget. I'd say something as if he were still around, as if, like his elder brother, he had me under survelliance and could still hear me. But he was Sherlock, and even if he wasn't here, I could atleast pretend he was. I wish he was, with all my heart.
I like Lestrade and our consultations were always intriguing. Honestly I was just happy to keep myself busy, to remember the feeling I would get when running through the backstreets of London with the greatest man I'd ever known, my bestfriend, Sherlock. It wasn't quite the same anymore, obviously. I didn't get the same enjoyment out of a murder as Sherlock had, a corpse was just a puzzle to him, a game. To me, It was still a person. I had never understood how Sherlock could get such a buzz from death. I still don't understand it. An important part of being a Doctor is compassion. Now I know that might sound silly, I was afterall, in the Army. But when you are out there, in the sweltering heat, with people dying around you everyday, your outlook on the world changes. I was no longer a lost man, searching endlessly for his calling in the world. I was Dr John Watson, I had a role, I would save lives. With every death and every life saved, I felt emotion and I held on to that human part of me, I gripped it so tightly and refused to ever let it go. There were Doctors, not just military doctors, all different kinds who after so many years of hurt and hope, glory and shame, decided to give it all up, to just stop caring. I guess in many ways, it'd be easier. But I couldn't do that, I cherished my compassionate nature. In many circumstances, I've found myself wondering how I could have lived with the borderline-sociopathic Sherlock Holmes. It was odd, but a good odd. The best odd. Truthfully, though he would never had admitted it, he did care. Not for everyone, that would be taking it too far in his view, but for the select few whom came to mean a great deal to him. Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly and though he'd rather kill himself with his Revolver than say it out loud, Mycroft. It wasn't the Revolver that killed him in the end though and of all the deaths I've ever witnessed, this was what really damaged me.
I rubbed my temples and stretched. I was so tired. All I had done lately was take continual visits to consult with Lestrade. I didn't go on dates, I didn't sleep, I didn't eat much, I didn't see much enjoyment in the world as I used to. Though I fooled everyone into believing I was the same loyal dog, Dr John Watson. Mrs Hudson of course still hovered around the flat, mothering me, as she had Sherlock. I was always organised when Sherlock was here. I always got the shopping, cooked the meals, everything. Well, everything other than the cleaning. Mrs Hudson tried so hard to convince us she wasn't our housekeeper. She may aswell be afterall. I chuckled to myself. I always found myself happiest when recollecting the old times, even though I had a bitter sting in my heart whilst thinking about him, it was bearable. I had to be strong for him at least. He took his own life in order to spare ours. That brilliant, intellectual, dick of a man. I chuckled again. Even up on St Bart's roof with Moriarty he had been clever. He recorded their conversation. He knew I'd find it and spread the word. Sherlock was not a fraud. Moriarty was real. I sat there for what must of been an hour, just smiling, thinking of the memories I treasured above all.
The day we were summoned to Buckingham Palace, I arrived in Helicopter to find a naked Sherlock wrapped in a bedsheet sat on a piece of lavish, expensive furniture. Even in the Queen's home Sherlock refused to abide by such small rules as decent clothing.
"I really did look good in that sheet." A low, melodic voice filled my ears. A real voice. Not a memory.
I looked slowly up towards the doorframe of my room, praying to God that my subconscious wasn't playing cruel tricks on me and there he stood. The tall man with the cheekbones you could cut your hand on. The man with the dark curls that sat messily upon his head. The man who would turn the collar up on his jacket. The man who had left me. The man who was supposed to be dead.
"Honestly John, how do you expect to progress if you sit in your room moping around?"
I couldn't find the right words to say, I just spluttered the odd vowel or beginning of a word.
Sherlock Holmes stood staring at me, a smile planted upon that thin, handsome face.
"You're supposed to be.. I mean you can't be... You're not dead."
"Thankyou John, we now have a firm grasp of the obvious."
I just stared. My world had gone back into sync. The dark I had thought consumed me, released me and light filled my mind. I'm sure you're thinking this reunion was exactly what I wanted. I did too. But I felt angry, really angry. I stood up, clenching my fists and unclenching them in aggression. He went to speak again and I swung my right arm. Hitting him squarely in the cheek.
"That's better." I said, instantly relieved.
He looked up, holding his cheek. The man with the all the answers was stunned and stared at me. And I sat and waited. Waited for my explanation.
For a while there was nothing but silence, both of us perched on what used to be our chairs. Or was now still our chairs. I didn't know what to think or say, which tense to narrate in. The past and present all seemed to be muddled and intertwining in a way I couldn't wish to understand. Instead I sat there, my hands by my sides, fists clenched. I looked at him, I tried my best to keep my face steady and allow him to speak, with the odd quiver in my lip. I licked my lips and waited for what seemed like a lifetime. He then lifted his face off of his hands and looked directly at me.
He smiled at me, a brilliant smille, one that made the corners of my lips twitch. I had to fight it off, fight off the power he had over me. I deserved an explanation.
"You've not been eating." he stated.
"Digesting merely slows me down." I mocked.
He dismissed my comment, though I could see the inquisitive twinkle behind his bright blue eyes. There was more to be said, but the highly-functioning sociopath didn't know exactly what to say. I could feel my anger rising and falling unexpectedly and I knew I couldn't stay in his presence much longer. I felt sick, grief and happiness was filling me up in an unpleasant mix and I ached to be close to him despite such anger. I stood up abruptly and trunched off down and out the door without a look back at him.
I walked straight out of 221B and hailed a taxi. I clambered in clumsily, my frustration getting the better of me. A balding man of middle age turned in the front seat to face me before we set off, he could see I was shaking and shook his head, "You okay fella?" he said huskily, his voice deep and raspy. I nodded, trying my hardest to keep face and calm down. "Where you off to?" he said, pulling away from the curb and away from Baker Street. I sighed with relief and my muscles begain to relax. "Diogenes club." The taxi driver raised an eyebrow, which I could see in the rear-view mirror. I looked out the window, at all the people going about the average, mediocre lives. From time to time, I imagined myself living a normal life. A life without the nightmares of war in Afghanistan and without the scattered limbs in your flat. Though admittedly, there had been none of that in his absence, or death, or well, you know.
We at last pulled up to the club, where I was almost certain Mycroft would be lurking. Reading one of his papers robotically in the many chairs, ignoring the other middle-class members that surrounded him. I walked through the entrance and straight into the office that myself and Mycroft had consulted in a scattered amount of incidents.
I slowly eased myself into the armchair and waited for him to walk through those heavy-framed doors, shocked to see me there. But instead, he greeted me with a normal welcome, as though he had nought but a care in the world.
"Ah, John. What bring's you here?" he said inquisitvely, the same twinkle in his eye as his brother. He turned away from me for a moment, to pour two glasses of expensive, single-malt whisky. He turned and passed the glass to me. I nodded politely and took a sip before answering him.
"It appears one of Baskerville's experiments was to bring the dead back to life."
He had pressed the glass to his lips but instead, pulled it away. His head arched upwards a little, his face confused. He set the glass down on the table, and leaned on it slightly. Looking at me squarely in the eye.
"Sherlock." he stated. We had interlocked in gaze and he knew I was not about to reply to the name, instead I clenched my fists again. Mycroft's eyes flickered to acknowledge this and then back at my face. His expression was hard to read, like a mixture of curiosity and sincerity. He cleared his throat, trying to conjure up the right words to say to me. Mycroft was an intelligent man, he knew what I wanted to know from my unfaltering stare.
"Indeed, I have known." He looked down at the floor, in shame? Perhaps. He continued, "I had wished to tell you, but my brother, priggishly insisted that it was safer for you to remain ignorant." I made a small noise that invited Mycroft to continue, and so he did. "I had not anticipated that Sherlock would arrive at 221B so swiftly, but alas my brother is full of his suprises." He paused. "What you must understand John, is that, arrogant as he is, my brother was doing this to protect you and in his own time, he will confide in you the circumstances. But I can but agree, that now, it is unsafe for you to know the whole truth." Mycroft smiled a little, and picked up his glass, drinking half of the small amount.
"Does he expect things to fall back the way they used to be?"
"My brother is not a fool John, you know that very well. He will however, attempt to maintain a certain equillibrium. I do not expect you to follow this though, afterall you are a changed man."
I looked up at him in bewilderment. Had Mycroft continued to spy on me without Sherlock?
"Yes John, I have been watching. As always. I have noticed that you do not eat, drink or sleep nearly as well as you did before Sherlock's 'death'" he wagged his fingers mockingly at the word, which raised a small smile on my part.
"I'm stronger." I stated, sipping the whisky. Mycroft, finished his off and nodded. We looked at each other evenly and without speaking, we silently settled any quarrel that could have been raised. I rose from the armchair and shook his hand firmly, as I would any other time. I departed from the Diogenes club on foot, needing a brisk walk in the cold London air.