This happened... I do have other projects in the works, hopefully I'll be able to get at least one of them up here soon, but until then, enjoy!
"Dr. John Watson" - it was an average name, somewhat distinguished, but fairly unremarkable. An average was what Sherlock Holmes supposed he was.
It was little secret that if the great detective, Sherlock Holmes, deigned to "love" anyone (or anything), the city of London which he made his hunting ground and home would be it. Some would call it a rather strong emotion for a man to have for a place, but Holmes disagreed, he found that little else would be equally suited. Women sure didn't suit him - as much was obvious - and he had yet to find a man who did.
Unless London was a man.
For Sherlock Holmes, London was a man. He was old and short - compared to the tall, lean detective - with bright blue eyes and a well trimmed moustache, dressed in a modern suit, but with antique embellishments, including a particularly dignified old watch. He was not overly large, but he was healthy around the stomach and had a languid, sprawling way of taking up space if he so desired. He was a solid man in a fight, handy with an old revolver, though he still needed defending from crooks and villains from time to time, and in his own way he defended Holmes in turn.
He didn't really need a name, he had the greatest "name" any man could desire, but sometimes, if he was mingling with the populace that made up his great city, perhaps, he could use one. Something average, like "John," suited him and Holmes found he liked the family name "Watson."
Usually he was a distant presence, observing impassively from a throne made of the city itself. He saw everything and said nothing - the city could speak for itself. But sometimes…
Sherlock Holmes was not a superstitious or religious man, he believed only what his senses told him. Nor was he prone to following feelings, particularly not of the softer variety.
But sometimes he felt - not saw, for nor was he a madman - London wandering beside him, or sitting in the chair opposite his by the fire in his Baker street flat in the heart of the city. Whole conversations passed between them unspoken, the raw exchange of thoughts and ideas that sharpened Holmes' mind and encouraged his deductions.
It was a mechanism, one might say, by which the largely friendless man found companionship and elaborated upon his ideas aided by a non-existent companion who could serve any role desired of him and none undesired, all at once. Others may have been content to merely wave it off as yet another example of madness in the still undeniably brilliant detective's method. A perhaps more spiritual approach found that it was none of the above, but truly a representation of Holmes' relationship with the city he loved so dearly, that eventually came to love him in return.
For his part, Sherlock Holmes wasted little time speculating upon his relationship with the mythical Dr. John Watson. It was all very simple really, he would defend London until his dying day and in turn London was his constant companion and closest friend.
Holmes complained of the tedium of the mundane and London delivered unto his doorstep a reality far stranger than fiction. Holmes spent hours turning an idea this way and that to no avail, and a single glance exchanged with Dr. Watson and the answer was as clear as day. Holmes captured crooks and London recorded the tales in the city's infinite memory - without London there would be no story to tell at all.