Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plot and several interesting hats. Including a BOWLER HAT, just like the dear doctor's!
Notes: This is slightly different from the actual events of the first two episodes. I know that Watson pulled a fish out of his innards, and that it was only his head that was made to look like the real fictional Dr. John H. Watson, but it works better for the story if some things are changed. Sorry to the sticklers. Also, I wrote this while listening to 'Evacuate the Dance Floor' by Cascada, in case anyone was interested. Yup, that's me, trying to write romantic, slightly angsty-ish type stuff while high on sugar and listening to peppy music. Also, the ending probably sucks. I apologize. I am reeeeaaaally bad at endings.
Told in Holmes' PoV.
I shall never, as long as I live, forget the fear I felt upon waking up in the 22nd century. Everything was unfamiliar, strange.
The thing that frightened me most was waking up and finding that Watson was not there, hovering anxiously as he was wont to do. No, instead there was Inspector Beth Lestrade of New Scotland Yard. I disliked her on sight.
But before that, I was terrified. Where was Watson? What had happened? Where was I? This should not be happening. I had died. I should not be here. Beth Lestrade's face loomed over me, so horribly foreign, so unlike my good doctor's handsome face. I sat up, breathless.
Lestrade explained everything to me.
And I, the 'Great Detective', had trouble comprehending. It was the 22nd century, I was alive, and young again, and Watson...Watson was dead. No one had seen fit to revive my loyal biographer, my Boswell, my best and only friend. No, they were only interested in me-or rather, my mental faculties.
I was alone. So, so alone. When I fell asleep that night, not at my old lodgings at 221B Baker Street, but at New Scotland Yard, I was plagued by dreams, dreams of my dear doctor: Watson, calling my name repeatedly at Reichenbach Falls; Watson, diving into the pool to search for my body; Watson, lying still with the terrible bout of pneumonia he caught after that; Watson's dejected, weary face when I, disguised as an old book-seller, bumped into him outside the court-house; Watson's disbelief when I flung off my disguise; Watson embracing me firmly to assure that I really was there, in the flesh. I awoke with a start and sobbed hot, quiet tears into my pillow. I would never again see my dear Watson, never again be soothed by his gentle presence, never again feel his strong arms around me. These dreams and thoughts struck me with such indescribable emotion that it took every fiber of my strength not to cry out in anguish. I fell into a restless sleep, exhausted as I was from the day's events and my tears.
The next day, I met the compu-droid whom Lestrade called Watson. Her nickname for the metal being angered me to no end. That was not my Watson. My Watson was unique, irreplaceable. This...thing did not even vaguely resemble my dearest friend. The compu-droid was featureless, covered with hard, smooth, dull metal where my Watson had scarred, tanned skin, huge hazel eyes, a vaguely aristocratic nose, a sweet, endearing mouth, a soft moustache, firm muscles. No, this man-like thing, made of circuitry and steel, was the furthest thing possible from my friend. I resolved to ignore IT as best I could.
Time went by, however, and I was in the company of the droid more and more, especially after he had 'become' my best friend, taking on his mannerisms, his intelligence, and most importantly, to me, at least, his memories. The memories...what did the droid think of those memories, of the memories of gentle touches, tender embraces, lips meeting lips sweetly? Did the droid look at me and feel disgust? Shame? Shame that it was with 'him' that all those things occurred? Or did he not care, thinking that those feelings were long dead?
Although we were on much better terms, I did not realize the full depth of my feelings for this metal creature who was, in essence, my beloved friend, until I nearly lost him to the filthy, polluted waters of the Thames.
At that moment, I fully understood what Watson, the one person I had sworn never to hurt (even if I had made such a vow secretly), had gone through when I 'died' at Reichenbach. When Lestrade said she would call the dredgers, I was torn. Yes, they would find him, but in what condition? When I protested against this idea, she told me that she would get me another compu-droid. Abhorrent thought! I could feel the tears pricking at the corners of my ice-blue eyes as I told her, in no uncertain terms, that I didn't want just any compu-droid, I wanted Watson. It was him, or no one. My relief, my joy, when he staggered out of the disgusting water, was amazingly profound. I rushed to meet him, saying his name over and over. He looked at me in surprise. "Why, you...you called me Watson!" he exclaimed happily. I simply looked at him with tenderness and replied, "Well, that is who you are, after all."
When Lestrade took me to my old rooms at Baker Street, I was touched by this rather small act of kindness. My rooms were just as I remembered them, down to the tobacco-filled Persian slipper on the mantle, all my papers, and Watson's model ship proudly displayed on the bookshelf. However, the most important piece of all was missing: Watson. I turned to Lestrade and demanded to know where he was, but was silenced by his voice. When he came through the doorway, I was shocked. He looked just like MY Watson, every tiny detail absolutely perfect, even the scars. My breath caught as I gazed once more on his comely visage, captivated by the brightness of his eyes and how soft his lips appeared. He was dressed in the style of our youth: elegant grey trousers that accentuated his long legs, immaculate white shirt, light green cravat that contrasted beautifully with his skin, grey waistcoat with his golden watch chain proudly displayed, handsome, well-cut grey tail-coat that showed off his broad shoulders, black bowler hat resting atop his shining brown hair. I could scarcely find my voice to whisper, "Watson? But...but you look like-"
"The John Watson of old? I should hope so! The scientists at New Scotland Yard have done wonders, I'm sure you'll agree!" he chuckled.
After a few minutes of standing in silence, me simply gazing at him unashamedly, he turned to leave, saying, "Well, I ought to get back to the Yard. I'm overdue for a rest."
Irritated, I exclaimed, "The Yard? Why go to the Yard? Your place is here, beside me! If you want to stay, that is..." My voice broke a little on the last sentence.
Watson smiled the smile I so dearly loved and replied, "Why, Holmes, I'd be honored!" So happy was I over all that had happened that I could not help but smile as well. Lestrade finally decided to take her leave.
In my humble opinion, it was about damn time.
Once we were truly alone, I stepped towards him slowly, bringing my hand up to cup his cheek. His skin was so soft, marred only by his battle souvenirs.
"Watson?" I murmured, as my breathing sped up.
"Yes, my dear friend?" he replied, looking at me with the same adorable concern as always.
"Do...do you remember...everything?" My voice was halting, so great was my excitement.
He drew closer to me. "Of course, my dear Holmes. Everything."
I shivered in happiness. "And do...do you still feel the same? About me? About us?"
He enfolded me in his strong arms and I laid my head on his shoulder and inhaled his lovely, clean, cinnamon scent. He used one finger to gently guide my face up so that we were eye to eye. Slowly, sweetly, lovingly, he kissed me, his lips just as soft and warm as I remembered.
He pulled back after a moment of infinite tenderness; I know not how long it really was.
"Does that answer your question?" he inquired.
"Well, you did not really answer me in words..."
"Eyes and brains, my dear Holmes! Deduce!" he laughed.
"Well, I would have to say that, despite some peculiarities, the most major being that I was dead and you are a droid, our feelings remain unchanged!" I cried.
"Excellent work, Sherlock," he whispered as he drew our lips together once more.
"Thank you, John."
Yes, it is the 22nd century, but our feelings and love for one another are still just as strong as they were back in the days of gaslights and hansom cabs...
Truly, no matter what the century, the famous duo of Baker Street shall endure!