Dr. John Watson sat down rather awkwardly, grimacing slightly as he stretched his aching leg in front of him, leaning his cane against the side of the park bench. As he did so, something niggled in the back of his head, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was. Realization hit. This was the same bench that he had sat upon with Mike Stamford an eternity ago, drinking coffee, in search of a flatmate. He remembered what he had said to Mike.
"Who would want me for a flatmate?"
But as he sat upon that bench alone, he knew who wanted him as a flatmate. Who had wanted him as a flatmate, he corrected himself. John still lived in the flat, though it was eerily quiet, clean, still.
Safe.
Dull.
He briefly considered moving to a different bench, but dismissed the thought as childish- the memories would continue to follow him. Besides, it would be silly to aggravate his leg. He thought of the one who had temporarily cured this damn leg, and smiled quietly to himself as he remembered that night, dashing through London, the first of many.
A small girl in a bright pink cardigan rushed by, as her mother tried in vain to keep up.
"Rachel! Honey, wait by that corner! Do not step into the street without me, do you understand?"
Rachel.
Why was that name so familiar?
Oh.
Their very first case, the scratches in the floor, the daughter, "Not good?"
The password, the tracking device, which building?
The cabbie, the pills.
The shot.
John sighed. Was this how his life would be from now on? It had been six months. Time to move on. It was ridiculous for a common name to send him into such a dark mood. But it seemed like everything, from the girl to a bench to his own leg, was a reminder.
Lost in his thoughts, John hardly noticed the tall, immaculately dressed man sit down next to him on the bench. With a start, John realizes the man is staring at him. He turns to look at the man, and his eyes widen.
"Dr. Watson."
"Mr. Holmes."
Mycroft sighs, but says nothing else.
After several minutes, John clears his throat. "I'm guessing your day does not normally consist of walks in the park?"
"You're right."
They sit in silence once more. John shifts awkwardly in the bench next to the most powerful man he knows. He has not seen Mycroft since the funeral, and cannot fathom what this man would possibly want with him. After all, now he wasn't anything special. Just a doctor with a limp. Hell, he didn't even run a blog anymore.
Again, John breaks the silence. "So, what is this then? A new exercise regimen?"
Mycroft smiles dryly. "I see you've adopted my brother's pathetic attempt at humor."
John laughs humorlessly. "Are you going to tell me what you are doing here or do you expect me to guess? Because I haven't the slightest idea."
Taking a deep breath, Mycroft pulls out his phone, presses several buttons, and hands it to John. "I received this text message a week ago."
I need your help.
SH
John hears a roaring in his ears, and then feels hot anger.
"Is this someone's idea of a joke?"
"I thought the same, Dr. Watson, especially given the... nature of the message. I'm sure you would agree that it is unlike my brother to ask for help or any sort- particularly from myself. Naturally, I had the text tracked. However, this proved to be unnecessary, as another text came a short while later with coordinates."
"Alright, sounds like a feeble attempt to lure a powerful government official into a trap."
"It does indeed, but if that were the case, why would I be speaking with you?"
"Continue."
"I received a third and final text several minutes later," Mycroft hands the phone to John once again.
Please.
SH
John reads the text, and then slaps it back into Mycroft's waiting hand. Mycroft waits for John to say something, but John is silent, staring at the ground with murderous eyes.
"For the love of God, explain why you are here."
"I had several of my men visit the coordinates, all of us assuming it would be a trap. Once they arrived, they were supposed to inform me of what they found. I was not going to be generous with the individual who would use my brother's name as a hoax."
John smiled grimly at the rare showing of emotion, and waited for Mycroft to continue.
"This is what I received from one of my agents," handing John his phone for the final time.
The grainy image depicted several men, all armed with first aid supplies, huddled around a thin figure. Though the details were hard to make out, John was able to make out a mop of dark curls on the figure's head.
His heart began to pound so loudly that it drowned out everything else.
"Is this-"
"Yes."
"Are you sure?"
"John, this is my brother we are talking about."
"He's dead."
"Apparently not."
"That's impossible. I saw him die, Mycroft."
"I can assure you that he is alive, though not well."
"I'm assuming it is no use asking how he...wait...Mycroft, how long ago did you find out he was alive?"
"Only five days ago, John."
"Well then, why did you wait five bloody days to tell me?"
"He is a fragile state of recovery, and we were concerned as to what your reaction to him being alive might be."
"Glad to know you have that much faith in me. So why did you decide to let me know that my flatmate is alive?"
"He asked for you."
"...he what?"
"He asked to see you."
John hastily rose to his feet.
"Mycroft, take me to him now."
"Of course, Dr. Watson."
As the pair quickly strode off toward the ominous black car Mycroft had presumably arrived in, John's cane was forgotten by the park bench.
If you couldn't tell, this is my first-ever attempt at writing fanfiction. Please tell me what you think- I may continue this story, but I'm not sure. Anyways, thank you very much for reading!