Disclaimer: I do not own these characters.
John Watson was depressed. He knew he must be. He had symptoms. He didn't eat. He didn't have a job. If he still wasn't used to his active army life, he wouldn't even leave his flat. He had a therapist. He was bored. Nothing happens to me. His life was like a soft melancholy piano melody, good for setting a mood but not for listening to on your free time.
And then one day he met an old acquaintance of his, Mike Stafford, who introduced him to the most brilliant man he would never meet.
"John?"
John heard his name but kept walking. He caught a glimpse of the man who called him a moment ago. He looked familiar. Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe that wasn't Mike Stamford calling his name. He didn't feel like socializing.
"John Watson!"
Well, he couldn't ignore him anymore. John really didn't want to talk with anyone right now. In fact, he hadn't wanted to talk with anyone since he was back in London. It was odd. He thought that he should want to catch up with some of his old friends, but every time he thought about getting in contact with someone all his desire fled out of him. What would he say? It's not like anything ever happens to him.
He turned around. He may not like it, but he was not rude.
And that's how he ended up in St Bart's hospital, handing his phone to a complete stranger. The man glanced him Mike's direction, a questioning look.
"It's an old friend of mine, John Watson." Mike proclaims. John doesn't mind.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?" The man asks.
John falters, "Sorry?"
"Which was it – Afghanistan or Iraq?"
And so the conversation continues and the man, whom he'd only met approximately 10 minutes ago, proceeds to tell him how exactly how he knew he needed a flat and how he knew he was an army doctor.
And John is... well, John is a bit stunned.
The man gets up to leave but turns around half way through the door.
"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is two-two-one B Baker Street."
The encounter leaves John buzzing for hours. He can't help but wonder about this 'Sherlock Holmes'. The internet provides him with some information and a blog. It's amazing really. It doesn't register in his mind but his world just seemed to get instantly brighter.
If John were listening closely when he left the hospital that day he could have just made out the screeching of tires and a panicked yell in the distance. But he didn't. If John would have read the newspapers a few days later he would have known.
At seven o' clock, just as Sherlock had told him, he went to knock on the door labeled, 221B. He waited for a few moments more. When nothing happened, he chanced another knock. A few more minutes passed. He knocked a third time. John turned away from the door and looked over the street, something in his stomach hardened - worry? Then the door behind him opened. He turned around and opened his mouth to say something but stopped. It wasn't Sherlock at the door, but an older woman who smiled apologetically at him.
"Is Mr Holmes here?" John asked the woman looking around expectantly.
"Oh dear. Sherlock mentioned someone coming over about this time. I'm sorry dear he's not here at the moment. I'll have to have a word with him when he gets back. It's quite rude of him to just leave you here. I'm the landlady by the way, Mrs Hudson. What's your name deary?"
"Oh. John Watson." he fell slightly.
"He said you you two wanted to do a flatshare right? You can come in and have a look around without him if you'd like."
John shied away from the thought. He'd much rather see the flat while Sherlock was there. "Actually I'd... rather see it while he's here as well." He said honestly "But here. I'll give you my number and you can have him call me when he gets back yeah?"
"I see. Alright." she smiled.
John fished around his pockets for a pen and pulled one out. "Sorry, do you have some paper?"
"Oh of course! One moment dear." Mrs Hudson disappeared into the flat for a moment and came back with a piece of paper. John wrote down his number and they said their goodbyes.
The next day John couldn't stop thinking about the genius from Bart's. He was fascinated. He finally had something to focus on besides his boring, pointless life. He waited for Sherlock to call back. John didn't leave his flat for the entire day. Still no call. He stayed in his flat for the next day as well. There was something about this man. He was brilliant. By the third day John's hope began to dwindle. Why was there even hope in the first place? John thought to himself angrily. Because maybe, just maybe, his life wouldn't be pointless anymore. And on that hope,John waited.
Had John gotten out of his flat and got the morning paper, he would have known. There would have been a small article, hardly anything front-page, about the world's only consulting detective dying in a car accident. It would have made the papers simply because of his unique job title and his occasional help to the Yard. But John hadn't read the papers. And so he waited for the call that never came.
Soon John got back onto his old schedule. And soon after that he edged his way out of that schedule as well, never leaving his flat, never eating. He was become quite thin. He never got a job. He stopped going to his therapist. His life, essentially, ended.
And so, the wonderful things that could have happened, and the amazing friendships that could have formed, never did.
- End -
Author's note:
I often think about how much a character or a story or a situation and how much I love it. And then I think about what it would be like if it was gone. A piece of you would be missing and you'd never even know it. If John and Sherlock never met, there'd be no story and nothing to love. I'd like to show my appreciation to the BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle for creating these characters. I'm not sure if my life as a whole would be better or worse without them but I am sure that they make me one hell of a happy person.
Thank you!
And thank you for reading!