Moments

It was a chilly night in London. John Watson walked alone, in the dark, hands in his coat pockets. He had not started his night out with any particular destination. He was just starting to feel suffocated in his own home. Well, he supposed it was not HIS home any longer. He couldn't toss Mary out onto the street like that. It was just as much her home as it was his, if not more. John felt as if he would only ever truly have one real home and it resided on Baker Street. He was to move back to the flat tomorrow. He tried with Mary, he really did. He guessed he just had too many demons to be what was best for her. To be what was best for anyone. No, John did not have a plan when he left for his midnight stroll, but as he neared a bridge hovering over the Thames, one started to form.

He paused for a moment and looked down the street to the barely lit bridge. Really not safe at night for pedestrians. All it takes is a driver looking at his or her mobile for a second too long, drifting off to sleep in a blink of an eye and BAM! Away you go. Perfect. As he headed in the direction of the steel death trap, he passed an alleyway. A trash can fire caught his eye and he took an involuntary glance over. It barely lasted a second. He knew there were two people hunched over it, but he could not tell you more than that. Onward he walked.

Once he reached the bridge, he slowed his pace until he was approximately halfway across. He leaned on the railing and looked out over the water and darkened sky. A faint rustling nearby caused him to look around. A homeless man from the alleyway was headed towards him, only a few steps behind. He walked up next to John and also leaned on the railing, looking out towards the skyline. Silently, they stood. John was not sure if the distraction was a welcome one or a nuisance. He did not feel much of anything at that moment if he were to be honest with himself. Perhaps this was contemptment? Acceptance?

John reached a hand into his trouser pocket and pulled out the loose change he had on him. It wasn't much. Perhaps a pound or two. It wasn't like he was going to be using it anyway. He silently held it out for the man standing next to him. The man looked at the offering and then into John's eyes. John saw a hurt and sadness within them that he was certain reflected in his own eyes. The man took the change and gave a silent nod as thanks. Placing it into his own coat pocket, he looked down into the inky black water.

"You know," he said continuing to stare at the water though John was now looking at him, "I wasn't always like this." John looked into the pitch black water as well. Almost as if it were a black hole. Perhaps, in a way, it was. It would swallow him up and he wouldn't be seen again. If anything, he would be just a distant memory of someone somebody once knew. "I've had my moments." The man turned and sat down on the ground, leaning his back against the railing. "I've had my days in the sun." He chuckled. "Literally!" John looked down at him. "I survived a war, you know. You too, by the looks of it." He glanced up at John. "I did things I didn't think I could ever do. Some I'm proud of. Others, not so much. My son, though," he started, getting a little choked up at the mention, "him I was proud of. He was the best thing I ever did. Memories of him warm me on the coldest of nights. He always brings me through."

A son, John thought. He didn't even have that. It would have been nice though. He didn't always want children, but his time with Mary changed that. She changed him. She was good for him. Only now she could barely stand to look at him. He couldn't blame her. He was a tough one to love. That's why he felt completely alone now. He drove everyone away. Ever since Sherlock...no. No, he did not want to go there now. Never again. He was tired of feeling the loneliness and pain of people disappearing, even though he felt it was his own fault that they had. No one would miss him. He wondered how long it would take before anyone truly realized he had disappeared himself. He looked back down at the man sitting at his feet. He met the stranger's eyes. He looked from John, over his shoulder and the railing down to the water and back again. He knew why John was here. And John knew he knew why he was here. John figured the man had probably seen this plenty of times before. Not just from passers by, but inside his own self. Suddenly, John felt ashamed to be there. Everything the man at his feet had seen and been through, had and lost, and he was still here.

John joined the man sitting on the ground. "I haven't always been this way either." John stared at the ground between his feet. "I also literally had my days in the hot desert sun. Almost didn't make it back. But when I did, it took some time, but I started having some of the best days of my life. I was second to none. Well, second to one, I guess, but he was the best one." A small smile played across John's face, but only for a brief moment. "Then, he was gone. And I was alone, again. And if I wasn't alone, I wanted to be alone. As if my own attitude were not enough to drive everyone away, I added alcohol to the mix. And quite a bit of it." The man rummaged around in his pocket and produced a flask, holding it out in an offering to John. He seriously considered it for a moment before shaking his head. The man tucked it back into his coat. "Nearly a year after he was gone and my drinking had started, I met Mary. She was an angel. My angel. She saved me. Took me a good six months to completely sober back up. She was by my side the entire time." John pulled out his wallet and located a photo inside. "Six months after that, we were married." He held the photo out to the man. It was one of him and Mary on their wedding day.

"She's beautiful," he said. "Lucky man."

"Lucky," John muttered. "Yeah, I was. Until I screwed it all up. Now she doesn't even want to be on the same planet as me. Can't say I blame her. I don't even want to be on the same planet as me." John took the photo back and tucked it safely into its slot. "When we were good, we were the best. She IS the best. But I'm not what is best for her."

"Is that her opinion, or your's?"

"We have reached a mutual stand pont on this one."

"I see." Both men sat in silence as the first car since they arrived at the bridge passed by. "What do you think he would say if he could see you now?" John gave him a questioning glance. "Your friend who is gone."

"Sherlock," he muttered.

"Yes. Him."

It was only now occurring to John that this man may have already known him. And if not him, then most likely Sherlock. "What would Sherlock say..." John mused aloud. Then, he chuckled. "He would most likely call me an idiot for picking the wrong bridge. 'Don't be so ignorant, John'," he said, attempting to do his best Sherlock impression. "'At this height the most you will do is break a leg and get a concussion'." John looked over to the man who had a smirk on his face. "But I think I ended up exactly where I was supposed to be tonight." He extended out his hand. "My name is John."

"Clarence," he said, taking John's hand and giving it a firm grip.

John chuckled once again. Something he had not done so often in weeks. "Of course it is."

"Listen," said Clarence, raising himself from the ground with a bit of John's help, "if you ever find yourself..." he trailed off. "Well, you know how to find me."

"I work at the surgery on the east side of town in case you ever need to find me."

They shook hands once again. "I think things are going to be looking up for you very soon, John." Clarence turned and headed back down the road.

John called out to him. "Thank you," he said to Clarence who was looking over his shoulder. He gave a slight nod and left. John watched him go until he disappeared into the darkness. He could just imagine him retelling the story over that fire of being the hero once again.

Clarence turned into the alleyway and saw his companion from earlier was still there. He stood in front of the trash can with his hands inside his long coat's pockets. "You were gone a while," he said.

"He just needed a friend."

The companion, a younger man, looked down at the ground. Some moments of silence passed between them before he quietly asked, "He didn't...?"

"Oh, god, no. Of course not." Clarence rubbed his hands together over the fire.

"Good. Good," he said nodding and breathing just a bit easier.

"We've been on him, just like you wanted."

"I truly appreciate it."

"It's nothing in comparison."

Silence passed once more. Both men recalling the events of the day and evening. "It's not like he would have been too seriously injured from that height, anyway. A concussion most like-."

"Sherlock," Clarence interrupted. "You've been gone for nearly three years. You fought your fight and won. You're worried he won't let you back in, but he needs you now just as much as you need him."

Sherlock sighed and dropped his head. "I broke him." A soft pain was evident in his tone.

"And you can mend him." The younger man met his gaze. Both were quietly assessing until, finally, Sherlock nodded. It was his moment to go home.