"Oh god"
John was in a garden, some streets far from Baker Street, walking around with Helen, the boring lawyer, like an old friend would say. Three years ago, his best friend, his cure from his war nightmares had jumped from the rooftop of St. Barts. Since that day, Dr. John Watson became again the scary loner who still was deeply afraid of his own conscience. He didn't leave 221B, because his adoration to the consulting detective needed to be fed constantly, followed by the shy but sincere tears of a war soldier. He went to the flat just to remember every little piece of Sherlock, every single detail, but at this point he didn't need it anymore to remind him of every expression, every different voice tone, every piece of cloth.
John accidentally created a mind palace, to fuel his suffering due to this unexplained fate. He was constantly searching for girlfriends to distract him from the war in his mind.
Helen wasn't that good at doing it, but things were really getting out of hand.
"Oh god"
"What happened, John? Are you ok?", she said, clearly not worried, just trying to be polite. "John?"
Here he was, across the angels statues, very well hidden. Sherlock was there, he saw him.
John used to say to himself he was doing everything he could do to maintain his sanity and he would not give up so easily. He would not give up. He would live unhappily, but as a sane man. He said it like a mantra, but sometimes his delusions were so detailed that all he could do was to accept it and admire the echo of Holmes' existence in his mind.
He was as stunning as ever. Check.
He wasn't running away or trying to explain anything. Check.
The coat and the scarf. Check.
Certainly a delusion. But he just couldn't stop looking at it. John needed to feel this pain again, like a substitute to everything good in his life. A substitute to Sherlock Holmes.
