Disclaimer: Don't own, wish I did
The limp had returned. John had expected it; he knew it was psychosomatic and he'd tried to tell his brain this, but it was like stepping on a broken escalator, no matter how long you stood there telling yourself that it wasn't going to move, when you stepped onto it, you still momentarily experienced that loss of balance. John decided that a certain consulting detective had made him blind to the very concept of a limp, just as a real blind person would step onto a broken escalator, believe it to be a staircase and not stumble.
So here John Watson was, 18 months on from the day a certain consulting detective had left him in the most abrupt and brutal fashion, making his daily limp home from the surgery to his very basic lodgings. They weren't too far away from Baker Street, but they were a world away in style and sentiment; it was all John could afford. He refused to touch the money Mycroft kept depositing in his account, instead giving it to a charity, dedicated to helping soldiers with PTSD. He knew he should move out of London, but whilst he couldn't bear to live at the flat in Baker Street, he couldn't bring himself to leave the city altogether. Not only did it contain Mrs Hudson, Greg Lestrade, Mike Stamford and Molly Hooper, who had become close friends to him over the past 18 months, but John still got a glimpse of something resembling life in his work with the police.
After John had punched the Chief Superintendent he never expected to be allowed within 100 yards of a crime scene ever again, but the subsequent investigation into a certain consulting detective's death had revealed a catalogue of errors regarding one James Moriarty, that had allowed the criminal free reign of London for a number of years. Someone at the top had to take the flak for missing the activity of such a huge criminal kingpin for so long and the Super had gone in a blaze of ignominy, with the media beginning to question their opinion of a certain consulting detective. The new Chief Superintendent had re-instated Greg Lestrade as a DI and Greg had immediately begun asking John to help with cases.
John had refused at first, but Greg had been persistent and when John had finally relented and been asked to take a look at a body, he'd gotten that familiar thrill and he'd even felt connected with a certain consulting detective once more. He knew the man himself would have dismissed this as 'sentiment' with a sneer, but John didn't care; if sentiment was what got him through the day, then so be it.
As John walked, more graffiti caught his eye and made his chest tighten. He stopped and stared at it for a moment. The campaign had started not long after a certain consulting detective had died. At first John had been pulled in for questioning over the graffiti, but the police were satisfied that all he'd done was write the first two sentences as his final blog entry and others had taken it upon themselves to copy them; he couldn't be prosecuted for that.
Then witnesses had come forward, those who'd worked for Moriarty and tried to escape his network, with devastating consequences for them. This was followed by those whom a certain consulting detective had helped, people like Henry Knight, whose cases couldn't possibly have been orchestrated by the man who'd solved them. John had worked with these people to present enough information on a certain consulting detective's innocence to the police and the press and the graffiti had multiplied, springing up in the dead of night, getting people talking. Of course, John wanted everyone to believe again, but at the same time, he wondered what good that would do in the long term.
Seeing his name written down was like re-opening a wound, it caused John's fingers to wrap around the nearest solid object and squeeze it until his knuckles went white, his heart beat faster and a lump formed in his throat. But, aside from a couple of times that first week and just after the funeral, John hadn't shed tears for a certain consulting detective. John Watson was from a family where tears were rarely shed, they were for sissies his dad said and if any of them did cry, it was in private. John knew this was an unhealthy attitude, but as he'd grown he'd begun to associate tears with Harry's hysterical drunken outbursts and he retained the revulsion for displays of grief that his dad had instilled into him.
Nowadays John's emotional responses usually took the form of quiet, building anger that would then be released in a burst of energy. In his army days he'd channeled this into exercise, running mostly. Now his limp was back he just took to staying awake, walking the city streets until his leg throbbed and he was mentally and physically exhausted; then there might be a few dry sobs as he finally allowed himself to lay on his bed, but no tears. He also found that the nightmares which induced panic attacks and sometimes left him with blurry vision, could be alleviated with valium. He didn't tell anyone he was self medicating like this and he kept his dose low, but he thought he might possibly be addicted at this point. However, he didn't care, he just needed to keep functioning.
And that had been the main thing on his mind for the past 18 months, keep busy, keep functioning. He knew that some people had thought he might attempt suicide, but whilst that had been something he'd contemplated just after being discharged from the army, too much had happened in his life now for it to be an option. There was still work to be done and the work was what he lived for, both as a doctor and as a police volunteer. He left himself as little time as possible to be at home, as he couldn't concentrate on anything trivial any more, not books, TV, or music. Nights at the pub were ok, because the alcohol had a similar effect to the valium and as long as people stuck to topics unrelated to a certain consulting detective, John almost felt normal.
He'd sometimes go for afternoon tea with Mrs Hudson in a café, somewhere that wasn't Baker Street, but these visits had to be timed, because sooner or later she'd start on a topic that would give John heartburn. Of course she missed a certain consulting detective as much as John did, but as much as he wanted to be there for her, she would need to talk to someone else about her loss. John just wasn't ready to handle it; he didn't think he'd ever be ready.
So as he stood here now, staring at the graffiti, he felt the familiar tightening of his fingers around the head of his cane and a trembling throughout his body. He screwed his eyes shut and tried to block out the words in his head that he knew as well as his own name:
"I believe in Sherlock Holmes. James Moriarty was real." And then the sentence that wasn't John's, something he wished were true with all his heart, but it couldn't be, could it? "Sherlock Holmes is alive."
He took a deep breath and hurried away, chanting 'I know, I know he told the truth, but why say he's alive? Why? Why?' over and over in his head, but he must have been mouthing the words too, as he was getting a few funny looks from passers by.
John turned onto a less busy street to escape the stares, marking his route home, when out of nowhere a body hurtled into his side, pushing him to the floor, a strange noise rushing past him as he fell.
John's immediate thought was robbery, or a gang hit and mistaken identity. He braced himself for a kicking and prepared to put up a fight. They weren't getting his phone whatever happened, it was his final link to the memory of a certain consulting detective, messages, pictures, that phonecall. If he had to die defending his phone, so be it; for the first time in a long time, John Watson felt properly alive, and for the first time since his discharge from the army, he also didn't really care if he were to die. But the next thing John knew, his attacker leapt over him and began running down the street, John lifted his head to look after the retreating figure, but was distracted by a man yelling.
"Are you alright mate, someone just shot at you?"
John looked up in confusion and in that brief second he followed where the man was pointing to see a bullet hole in the doorway beside his head. But rather than be worried about that, John turned his slightly dazed head again to see his attacker round the corner and a single glimpse of the back of the person's coat was enough to have John on his feet and sprinting after them, ignoring the concerned passers by who'd stopped to try and help him.
"Oi mate! Yer forgot yer stick?"
John knew he had and he didn't care, his leg was killing him and threatened to give way at any moment, but the more he ran and thought about why he was running, the more he forgot about it. He rounded the corner of the street in time to see the pursued person burst out onto a busy main road. But this street was long with very few opportunities to disappear, so John knew that as long as he chose the right direction, he'd spot his attacker eventually. And the right direction wouldn't be too hard to deduce; John had an inkling of where the man might be going.
Sure enough within a couple of minutes, John spotted someone weaving in and out of the crowds, never slowing enough for John to get a good look at him, it was definitely a him, but enough for John to want to catch up and confront this man. At the very least, he needed to thank him for saving his life, at the most, he needed to know if he'd gone insane.
And then the coat flicked around a corner and John took the side street just before. He knew the streets well now, night after night of walking them had given him a mental map to rival even that of a certain consulting detective. He was going to head this man off at the next turning. But when he got there, the man was gone. John had gone the wrong way. He leaned down on his knees, gasping, gulping huge lungfulls of air and cursing on his exhales, telling himself that the wind blowing in his face was causing his eyes to run a little.
Stupid! To think he was being led back to Baker Street. Fucking stupid to think it might have been him!
And then a shrill whistle cut through the almost empty street and John looked up to see the flick of a coat disappear over a rooftop and he recognised the building as being one street away from his current lodgings. He knew which way to go now and he took off down an alleyway, which led between the building and the houses. It was only when he got to the corner and was about to turn onto his street, that he heard a clattering in one of the yards behind him and another shrill whistle. He halted and after a seconds deliberation, turned and ran back down the alley, trying to guess which yard held his attacker, or possibly his saviour.
He clambered over a wall between two houses about half way down; he recognised them as being opposite his own, as both had scaffolding around them and were being renovated. John looked around for a sign, anything that might indicate which one of these empty houses the man had gone into. John must have stood there for ten seconds, but they seemed like an eternity and he began to fight the rising panic that he'd lost the man for good this time, but then he saw it, in the glow from a security light, some plaster dust drifting down from one of the scaffolding boards in front of him. He shot forwards and was up the scaffolding within seconds, finding the window to one of the back rooms unlocked.
Yet, for just a moment, he paused. He could easily be walking into a trap. Stupid, sentimental John Watson, walking in to the arms of a killer who knew exactly what it took to make him come running. And yet, if he were to die now, would it really be so bad? The work wasn't finished, but then was work ever truly finished? There'd be people to miss him, of course, but then that's what people did didn't they, die and care and miss their friends. No, John's mind was made up, he was going in, to death, or to glory. And with the adrenaline rushing in his veins and a small smile gracing his face, for the first time in a long time, reaching his eyes, John Watson opened the window and climbed inside the empty house.