"Bloody Hell, Harry…" John mutters under his breath, catching sight of the bright, colourful lights pulsing and flickering behind the windows as he jogs up the front steps. The party lights peek through the tiny cracks between the drawn curtains, and the strong stench of sweat and alcohol force their way up John's noise as he stands before the door, fumbling around in his pockets for the key. His jacket pockets – now inside out – reveal nothing but lint and old gum wrappers, causing a low curse to fall angrily from his lips. Still grumbling, he prods the doorbell firmly with an index finger, then awaits the answer impatiently, clenching and unclenching his fists and jaw.
Before he can ring a second time, the door is thrown open, and the sounds from inside – loud, reverberating music and the buzz of many voices – are loosed into the night air. A familiar female face greets him with a lopsided smile, her body leaning against the door frame in a picture of ease. Taking in John's expression, however – clearly not the least bit amused, nor feeling particularly tolerant – her grin falters, falling clean off her expression. Her cheeks are flushed red, but not in embarrassment at being caught. No, John can smell the cheap booze on her, clinging to her clothes, heavy and damp on her breath.
"John –" she starts, as if to follow with a long explanation, but she's immediately cut off as John pushes his way past, shouldering her to the side as he marches over the threshold. His disappointment is clear upon his face, and his intent can be easily read in his tired – but livid – eyes.
"I don't want to hear it, Harry," John informs her, sounding utterly fed-up as he moves past the entryway, not even bothering to kick off his shoes or shrug off his coat. The girl (for, despite being nearly an adult, John still thinks of her as such) – Harry – bites her lip worriedly at this, her mind swimming with the combined effects of alcohol and guilt. Seeing this as he brushes past, John turns to her with a sigh. "Just – just get them out. Kick them to the kerb, and I'll help you clean up. I won't tell Mum, okay?" Harry nods, and John penetrates further into the house.
Making his way to the sitting room, the lighting dims and the annoyingly repetitive music echoes in John's ears as he shoves his way through the crowd of teenagers that only thickens as he moves his way along. They stand, gathered in small groups of friends – talking, laughing, and swaying to the music – all with bottles of beer or red plastic cups held loosely in one of their hands. All their faces are grinning brightly, their laughter carefree and loud, and their eyes dim and hazy from the swirl of alcohol in their brains.
"Alright, everyone!" John orders as he passes, his sister's guests shooting him dirty looks as he does "Time to clear out! Go vandalize someone else's place, if you don't mind." Despite their bitter mutterings that John can't quite decipher, they all start making their way to the front door, leaving behind various debris and odd smells as evidence. Stepping over crumpled napkins, empty bottles, and bent plastic cups, all while trying not to breathe through his nose, John moves deeper into the house, sending more buzzed minors outside.
Harry follows behind him as he completes his rounds, apologizing and bidding her friends goodnight. They're on the second floor after a few minutes, and they start the awkward task of clearing out the bedrooms. John is well past being hesitant, polite, and respectful, barging into room after room, demanding them be vacated at once.
"Put on your pants and beat it!" John winces minutely, holding his bedroom door open for the blushing couple that had just nearly passed the point of simply snogging upon his interruption. The guy tugs up his underwear and retrieves his jeans, buttoning them quickly as he exits, pulling his stumbling girlfriend behind him. Both of them refuse to meet John gaze, very much aware of whose bed they'd been rumpling if their beet-red faces are anything to go by. Even though they didn't go all the way, John would definitely be changing his sheets before he slept on that bed again.
"Open up!" John calls, knocking hard on the bathroom door as he reaches the end of the hallway. The worn, wooden door is closed, but light is peeking out from under it, as well as the sound of hushed voices. John groans internally at the plural. "If you don't open this door, I'm coming in whether you're dressed or not!" The bathroom at the Watson household hasn't had a functioning lock in a long time, since Harry had passed out drunk on the tile floor two years ago. "One!" John warns, raising his voice as he continues his count "Two!" His hand finds the metal knob, and he starts to twist.
"Three!" he shouts, throwing the door open. Two teenage boys, about his sister's age, stand out starkly against the pristine white of the bathroom. They are both dressed darkly – dark jeans and button-up shirts rolled up to their elbows – and are perched upon the closed lid of the toilet. Well, at least of them is – a tall boy with artfully ruffled blond hair and a dark green shirt that matches his eyes perfectly – with the other boy straddling his lap, his fingers twisted in the green fabric. The other boy is equally tall, but his startling thinness only enhances it. He's eerily pale, making his mess of dark, curly hair appear pitch black. His eyes are shut tightly as he presses against the blond, his pale lips trembling where they lay against the other boy's neck. John can hear his low, delirious mumblings in the uncomfortable silence that settles in the room, unable to make out the precise words.
John frowns as he spots the various red marks trailing up the arms of both teenagers, in multiple different stages of healing. Some are faded, some just starting to scab over, while a few are an angry, oozing red – infected. On each of their arms however, there is one puncture mark that is still a brilliant shade of scarlet, newly made. It looks especially alarming on the dark-haired boy, as pale and thin as he is. His wounds are like a splatter of vermillion on white canvas.
John's eyes move to the floor, where he spies needles and small, tinted glass bottles full of unknown liquid scattered across the bathroom tiles. He swallows hard, biting his tongue and taking a deep breath, before he leans his back on the open door, pointing to the stairs. He manages to choke out the words, trying to keep his voice calm and firm "Get out."
The blond flashes him a lazy smile of white, perfect teeth. He makes no move to raise himself from the toilet seat, however, planting a sloppy kiss to his pale friend's temple whilst peering up at John with a mocking smile. Harry appears in the doorway, still looking ashamed, and clearly just as worn-out as her brother.
"Victor, just go, please." Harry nearly begs, rubbing her face with her shaking fingers. The blond – Victor – frowns slightly before it's replaced with the crooked smirk that seems to be his default expression. He pokes at the side of the dark-haired boy draped on his lap with an insistent finger, running his other hand through the boy's curls until he stirs. The boy's eyes flutter open, revealing pale, blue irises that strongly resemble winter sky, though almost completely swallowed by his blown pupils, shot through with ugly streaks of bloodshot red. He straightens up slowly, looking bleary-eyed and disoriented.
"C'mon, Curly Sherly," Victor teases and grins, poking at his friend's ribs (John can see their distinct outline through the boy's snug, blue shirt) one last time before he starts to raise himself up. The skinny boy frowns at this nickname, but nevertheless stumbles backwards, his long, thin limbs flailing and uncoordinated. Victor scoops up the drug paraphernalia off the floor, much swifter than his friend is probably capable of in his state, flashing John and Harry another grin as he drags the curly-haired boy along beside him, his arm snaked firmly around his thin waist to keep him from sliding to the floor in a tangle of skinny limbs.
As he passes through the doorway, Victor wags an eyebrow as he – very obviously – sneaks his hand below the waistband of his friend's jeans. The fabric is tight enough on the boy's thin frame that John can clearly see the outline of the blond's hand as it grabs hold. The dark-haired boy stumbles, chuckling under his breath as he is pulled along, high as a kite. John frowns as they disappear down the staircase, Victor shooting him a wink over his shoulder, green eyes glinting in a way that makes John uneasy.
"No more parties," John says firmly, passing a hand over his tired face as he hears the door closing downstairs, abruptly cutting off the sound of the junkies' irregular footsteps and odd giggling. Harry nods and, though her face is serious, John knows he'll be in this exact same situation by next weekend. John sighs (which he seems to be doing a lot of tonight), taking in his sister's red, glassy eyes. "Go to bed," he insists, dismissing her protests with a wave of his hand before they can even sneak out of her mouth "Just – just sleep it off, I'll start getting everything tidied up before Mum gets back."
With a slow nod, Harry obediently shuffles down the hallway in the direction of her bedroom.
Looking out the sitting room window after making his way downstairs, John catches sight of the two druggies walking ungracefully down the street, arm in arm in a stumbling, intoxicated tandem. He shakes his head, letting the curtains fall back into place before getting to work on the mess littering the floor of his sitting room.
What John Watson doesn't know is that he has just met Victor Trevor and Sherlock Holmes, the latter destined to become his very best friend, his colleague, his partner, and so many another things that cannot be accurately described by the limits of the English language. But there he goes, his mind a haze of mind-altering drugs, the eager hand of his current lover sneaking further down his pants as he drifts further away from John Watson. Not even knowing each other's names, they part, unaware they will later be brought together again.
For this is not the first time John Watson has encountered Sherlock Holmes, and it will certainly not be the last.
…
"Ow," John winces, propping his throbbing ankle up on the seat beside him. The chairs in the hospital waiting room are hard and stained with who-knows-what (he tried not to think about it), but John lets out a deep sigh of relief as the pressure dissipates ever so slightly. He can feel his mother's worried, sympathetic glare heat the back of his neck as he does, and knows she's probably gnawing at her lip right now. "I'm fine." He tries unsuccessfully to assure her, but his voice climbs up a pitch and wavers strangely, betraying him.
"I'll go check up at the front," she says, rising from her uncomfortable seat beside him, rubbing the knee of his good leg as she passes "See how much longer it's going to be, yeah?" John nods gratefully, fighting the urge to protest and tough it out, knowing her simple inquiry is soon going to turn into a rather loud discussion with the nurse about how he needs to be seen as quickly as possible. He'd rather avoid making an embarrassing scene, thank you very much.
John rests his head against the stiff back of the chair, staring up at the ceiling – covered with stickers of various animals, as well as miscellaneous other things, like stars and fire trucks – before closing his eyes. He makes an attempt at blocking out the buzz of the hospital – crying children, worrying parents, and an orchestra of coughing, sneezing, and pained yelps – when the sound of a female voice close by forces his eyes fluttering back open in surprise.
"Excuse me?" it asks softly, and John is soon staring up at an oddly tall woman, who returns his gaze with her own pair of cool, blue-grey eyes. Her whole image screams of wealth – from her shiny gold and silver jewellery, to her impeccable makeup, to the thick, luscious fur of her coat – and John can even hear it dripping from her tone. The woman smiles apologetically, gesturing to the boy at her side with the manicured hand that isn't entwined with his as she starts to speak. "I'm terribly sorry, but I was wondering if you could spare a minute? It won't take much of your time, or any real effort on your part, I assure you. Would that be alright?"
Confused, but mildly curious, John nods, peering at the boy at the woman's side. He only comes up to the woman's waist, a few years younger than John himself. The boy's limbs are thin and gangly, his skin almost paper white, giving him a similar look to one of Harry's stupid porcelain dolls John had been scared of when he was smaller. An older John would briefly worry about the boy being malnourished, but his bright eyes – exactly the same strange colour as his mother's, and partially obscured by the tangle of dark curls atop his head – and rosy cheeks would soon convince him otherwise. The dark-haired boy peers at John expectantly, clutching a clipboard tightly to his narrow chest with one arm, and a yellow pencil poking out from behind his ear, knotted in his hair.
"Good!" she exclaims, delighted at John's approval, flashing him a grin "Well, you see my son's –" The child shoots his mother a glare, and she quickly closes her mouth with a small smile "I guess I'll just let him explain." The boy nods, dropping his mother's hand, holding his clipboard out in front of him awkwardly with one skinny arm as he draws his pencil out from behind his ear. He clears his throat before speaking.
"Hello," the boy says, voice friendly though he doesn't smile, and John supresses a grin at the utter seriousness of this kid "My name is Sherlock, and I'm conducting a study on injuries acquired by children." John is immediately astonished by the child's vocabulary, despite the evident lisp in his voice (all his R's sound strangely like W's) as he stumbles over the more complicated words. He recites his words with a practiced pace (he'd probably had it written out for him beforehand by an adult, and had probably repeated this little speech multiple times today) as he explains himself to John. "I want to see how many of their physical injuries are caused by sports and physical activity, as opposed to other kinds of accidents." Little Sherlock holds his pen eagerly over his clipboard, waiting "How old are you?"
"Nine," John replies quickly, watching Sherlock scratch his answer down before raising his head once again, gaze drawn to John's leg resting on the seat beside him
"How did you hurt your ankle?"
"I slid during a football match, and my mate stepped on me with one of his cleats." John answers, wincing at the memory. Said ankle continues to throb dully, reminding John once again of its presence. Sherlock nods continually as the older boy speaks, dark curls bouncing as he scribbles something down on his clipboard. Finishing with an obvious, final stab of his pencil that was probably a period, Sherlock smiles widely, his entire face brightening as he returns his pencil to its home behind his ear.
"Thank you!" Sherlock grins, sticking out a small, pale hand for John to shake. John returns his smile, covering the younger boy's hand completely in his own as he shakes it gently. Letting go, the boy bounds off to the other side of the waiting room in search of another injured kid to question, with obvious excitement in his stride, a blur of skinny legs as he scrambles quickly across the tile floor. John can't fight back the smirk the creeps up his face as he glances at Sherlock's retreating curls.
"Thank you," Sherlock's mother repeats, before chasing after her little future scientist, who seems to be badgering a young blonde girl with (what looks like) a broken arm. John nods to the tall woman as she goes, still smirking to himself, before turning his gaze to his own mother, who returns to her place beside him nearly a minute later.
"Five more minutes, or so I'm told," she promises him, placing a reassuring hand on her son's shoulder.
When they are called by a tired nurse after almost ten minutes, John swears he can hear the muffled crying of a small boy behind him in the waiting room, followed by a lisping voice saying "I'm sorry, but I really need to know how you got hurt, it's important!"
Weeks later, as the cast on John's broken ankle is removed, the memory of little Sherlock Holmes has mostly faded away. It's rather unfortunate, being that future John cannot appreciate the changing of roles as he worriedly catalogues his best friend's every injury, asking him over and over the same questions, demanding the same information. "How did this happen, Sherlock? Who was it? Please tell me you haven't broken anything this time! What did I tell you about going off without me?" he presses, but Sherlock only waves him off, not nearly as willing to answer as John had been in the waiting room of the children's hospital all those years ago.
…
John doesn't recognize the child tugging at his sleeve as he walks along the side of the road, surrounded by a pack of other children. To be fair, the boy's thin frame is mostly hidden under the overlarge black coat that hangs off his shoulders, and the majority of his dark curls are covered by the ridiculous pirate hat that falls over his ears. It's not like John has the kid's name to go on or anything, at least not his real name.
"You're to call me Captain!" shouts the dark-haired boy, two years older than when John had last seen him. His ice-blue eyes peer up at him from underneath the brim of his large hat as he skips along, the sleeve of John's jumper clutched between his long, skinny fingers. John, three years his senior at the age of eleven, smirks at the miniature pirate's enthusiasm.
"Okay, Captain," John obeys, making Sherlock beam widely, stumbling alongside him giddily with a huge grin on his face. They move with the crowd of other children and a few exhausted, patient adults, John trying his best not to let Sherlock's flailing limbs clip anyone else's as he guides him along.
Earlier, the younger boy had been in a pout, whining and complaining about his older brother enrolling him in something as stupid as a day camp when he should've been watching Sherlock himself, but his mood had rapidly brightened with John's careful attention.
"My doesn't like to play pirate with me," the dark-haired boy remarks as he trots along, one hand on John's sleeve while the other holds his hat securely in place atop his mess of curls "All he wants to do is read boring old books. He says pirates are stupid, and playing pretend is for idiots." John laughs at his, finding the word idiot especially amusing coming from the mouth of an eight-year-old, and Sherlock's high-pitched giggle soon joins in.
If John remembered anything of the boy from two years ago, he would be marvelling in the change of personality Sherlock had undergone in those short years. He acts more like a child his age as he hurries along in his pirate outfit, a huge smile on his face. The lisp is even gone from his voice as he exclaims happily, singing out-of-tune sea chanteys as he goes.
John accompanies the younger boy on all the activities throughout the day (well, someone had to, for he does seem to have a knack for getting into trouble), as the group visits the park, climbing on the playground and eating a lunch of apple slices and animal crackers in the grass. Sherlock's coat swishes dramatically out behind him like a cape as he plays, giggling as John chases him around the swing set. His dark curls bounce freely, his pirate hat having fallen off a while back.
John never learns the little pirate's name, and therefore never makes the link when he chases after an adult Sherlock through the back alleys of London, his trademark coat billowing out behind him much like it had at the park. Sherlock even giggles, though it isn't until afterwards (and, even then, it's more of a low chuckle), back at Baker St., still high on the adrenaline of the case.
"That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done," John pants, still giggling, leaning his back up against the wall beside his new flatmate, unaware that this is an encore performance.
At the day camp, a week after the first one, John arrives to find an absence of the small boy – drowning in the fabric of his pirate costume – he'd grown so fond of the previous week. What he doesn't know is that the hat and coat had been burned promptly after the younger boy had returned home from their little outing, Sherlock forcing back the tears as he tries desperately not to let his older brother see him cry.
"Such silly fantasies are for children and idiots, dear brother," Mycroft says with an eerie calm that young Sherlock despises and fears, watching the flame tendrils lick eagerly as the fabric of his little brother's costume "And you are neither."
John is briefly saddened by the absence of the young pirate, but has soon forgotten about him again because, really, he has no need to worry. Though he doesn't know it, he and his pirate friend will surely meet again.
…
"One scoop or two?" Sherlock asks in a dull monotone over the counter of the ice cream shop where he is currently employed (Mycroft had insisted he get a summer job, in a cruel attempt to get him to socialize), the metal scoop in his hand hovering over the nearly-empty tub of mint chocolate chip.
"Two, please," John replies without looking at him, his focus instead upon the young girl whom his arm is now wound around, who giggles as she licks slowly (flirtatiously, Sherlock groans internally) at the vanilla cone he had reluctantly fetched earlier. The younger boy fights the urge to spit in his ice cream as he very obviously ogles the girl right in front of him, his fantasies of crawling into her bed dancing clearly behind his eyes. Sherlock makes no attempt to hide his scowl.
The thirteen-year-old, future consulting detective doesn't recognize the older boy that had chased him, giggling like a maniac, around the playground five years ago. He had deleted most of his earlier childhood, and his pirate phase in particular. Those memories wouldn't help him in life at all, he reasoned.
Sixteen-year-old John Watson doesn't even give himself the chance to recognize the younger boy, utterly absorbed in his current girlfriend of three weeks. Even if he were to look at Sherlock for more than five seconds, really looked, it's doubtful he'd make the connection between the chipper pirate and the sullen, teenage boy who stands there now (taller now, than John, despite their three years' difference), sulking in his ridiculous white-and-pink striped apron and stupid hat that sits – perched precariously – on top of his curly mess of dark hair.
Sherlock moodily hands over the teetering tower of mint and chocolate over the counter to the older boy, who mutters a compulsory thanks without so much as a glance. He swiftly pays for both cones (causing the girl on his arm to giggle annoyingly and swoon) before retreating out of the chilly ice cream shop and into the warm summer air, ignoring Sherlock's grouchy mutter of "Come again" that doesn't sound the least bit encouraging.
It's a damn shame, really, that John doesn't remember this particular meeting with Sherlock. He would have teased Sherlock about this one for ages.
…
Sherlock Holmes and John Watson pass each other in public, simply brushing by one another on the street, several times after that particular meeting. Then there is, of course, that unfortunate meeting at Harry's house party three years after that. They never really remember these encounters clearly enough to recognize each other the next time around, are never properly introduced, because the time and circumstances are not quite right, not yet anyway.
They are not meant to meet as twenty-one-year-old John pushes his way through the throng of curious onlookers, trying desperately to reach the blaring siren of the ambulance he'd seen screech through the streets on his way to work. He had heard that there had been a drunken brawl at a pub his sister had been known to frequent, and was now fighting to reach the front. Please let Harry be alright.
He is stopped from going further by an officer hovering on the outskirts of the scene, though is assured that his sister had not been present and that, in fact, the two people involved, though the same age as his sister, had been male. John leaves, just missing eighteen-year-old Sherlock sitting uncomfortably in the back of the ambulance, pressing a cold pack to his bruising cheek.
"Freak!" Victor spits at him from across the vehicle, sporting a matching bloodied face "It's no wonder you haven't any friends!" Sherlock trembles, regretting speaking the observations and deductions to the only person who voluntarily stayed in his presence (even if he only did it so Sherlock would fund his filthy habits in exchange for the valuable knowledge on how to quiet his racing mind). That would not be the case anymore, he knew for certain. "It's a wonder I put up with you for so long, you arrogant prick!"
John misses these words, of course, though a future version of him would've happily beaten up the young blond for them. In real life, though, Sherlock presses the cold pack even harder to his cut cheekbone with a hiss of pain as he lets Victor's stinging words crawl into the open wound and fester, never to truly heal. "You machine!"
They are not meant to meet at the airport when John prepares to be flown to Afghanistan at the age of twenty-five. His mother and sister hug and kiss him goodbye, trying in vain to hold back their tears as they wish him well. Two rows of seats over, twenty-two-year-old Sherlock sulks with his arms across his narrow chest, glaring angrily at Mycroft sitting beside him, wishing with all his might that looks could kill.
He appears haggard and even paler than usual, dark circles under his eyes that are nearly completely obscured by the shaggy fringe he's let grow for some time now. Daddy Holmes is on his way in from a business trip in Hong Kong, wealthy enough to afford to fly in for the sole purpose of lecturing his youngest son about the newly acquired puncture marks on his thin arms.
They are not meant to meet at the hospital, as thirty-six-year-old John winces in pain, the drugs singing in his veins not quite enough to mask the still-sharp pain of his wounded shoulder. John Watson screams in his sleep, wincing as he tosses and turns, his shouts – cracking, this throat as dry as the desert behind his eyes – just barely audible to Sherlock on the floor above, who ignores them in favour of studying something under his microscope while Molly hovers annoyingly over his shoulder. He mutters a request for a coffee (black, with two sugars) under his breath just to stop her breathing on his experiment.
"Mike, can I borrow your phone?" John hears Sherlock ask not even a year later, followed by a brief conversation about a preference for texting, then an apology from Stamford beside him.
John offers up his own mobile, seeing Sherlock's odd ice-blue eyes (didn't they look a tad familiar?) spark with surprise. Sherlock rises from his seat behind his microscope, sauntering over the take the proffered phone from his outstretched hand, asking the question that will set in motion the most important chain of events of both men's lives.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?" the detective inquires casually, typing away at the phone's keys with his long fingers, his mind already whirring with deductions about this new face, this John Watson, with his military stance and his psychosomatic limp.
Oh, yes, this is definitely right.
Despite the sheer number of times these two men have crossed paths in each of their lifetimes, this is when they are meant to meet, really meet. John – with the dark shadows of war on his tired face, and a limp in his step ready to be cured by the wonderful excitement of a case – and Sherlock – with arrogance and self-hatred fighting for dominance in his brilliant mind that threatens to tear itself apart, in need of John to both praise him and knock him down a few pegs, to bring out his empathy and human instincts buried deep.
Yes, this is definitely right, John agrees as he still chases after the consulting detective months later, begging some deity he wasn't quite sure he believed in for his arse of a flatmate to be okay, and for the crime organisation they were currently tracking not to be (too) heavily armed.
This is right, Sherlock's mind repeats at he glances down at John, breathing freely now, without the weight of the Semtex vest on his shoulders. They share a grin, both happy to be alive, and utterly high on the feeling, so much different from the one Sherlock used to find in a syringe. This excited quiver in his limbs and the faint flutter in his stomach are better than the chemical rush through his veins any day.
This is right, John thinks once more as Sherlock appears in the doorway of 221B Baker St. for the first time in three years, the longest, most deserved apology of all time surely about to come tumbling from the detective's lips. John almost punches him, but falters as he spots the look on his friend's face – that tortured expression that reminds John that they've both been through Hell, the ice of his irises shattering. That doesn't stop the ex-army doctor from unleashing a string of his favourite curses, though. He's not a bloody saint.
This feels right, Sherlock briefly allows himself to think, a year after his return, before his thoughts are scattered by bursts of light behind his closed eyes. John's fingers tug insistently at his curls, dragging the detective's head down to the same level as his, pressing his lips firmly to that infuriating mouth that seems to spit the most biting insults as well as the most brilliant deductions. Oh, this is aboso-fucking-lutely right, Sherlock's brains sings as John pushes him harder against the wall, the ex-army doctor's tongue sneaking inside, making his overwhelmed mind short-circuit, and for the most wonderful, blinding moment, his mind is blissfully blank.
This is right, John reminds himself, watching through his tears as the light eventually fades from Sherlock's usually bright eyes. They are no longer crackling with electricity, no longer shining with that obvious intelligence dancing behind their ice-blue exterior. The detective's face is pale, too pale, John notices, clutching the long, elegant fingers that are quickly becoming too cold. He can't bring himself to glance once more at the gruesome bullet wound that had punctured his (Best friend? Colleague? Lover? Partner?)'s chest, ripping through the fabric of his shirt, tearing through skin, muscle, bone, and the tissue of essential organs. He instead chooses to press his nose into the detective's hair, leaving a kiss atop the familiar mess of dark curls that have yet to really grey, save for a few lone streaks of bright silver. Now they never would. John weeps in the back of the ambulance, the paramedics not bothering to offer any further comfort other than a few muttered condolences.
This is right, John repeats a decade later, when it's his turn to go. His entire body aches with illness, the stiff hospital bed hurting his back, but he smiles as he feels himself drift away, imagining Sherlock's face – alight with excitement, as he always is (was) when confronted with something new and interesting – waiting for him when he finally closes his eyes for the last time. This is right.
Sherlock Holmes and John Watson run, skip, trample, fall, strut, and cross over each other's timelines so many times, they would greatly resemble John's favourite spaghetti at Angelo's if it were all laid out to see. They were always so tightly entwined, these two people, destined to accomplish great things. To save lives, capture criminals, and run around the great city of London like the two young boys they were at heart.
Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.
The Detective and His Blogger.
The Scientist and the Soldier.
The Pirate and his Best Mate.
The Addict and his Salvation.
Partners in Crime.
…
"Hello, my name is Sherlock."
"You're to call me Captain!"
"One scoop or two?"
"Afghanistan or Iraq?"
…
Goodbye, John.