Its common knowledge that every man or woman that goes to war receives two dog tags. They're simply identification if they're ever found dead. An unsettling thought at best, but nonetheless, even Doctor John Watson had a set.
He wore them around his neck up until he was discharged. In a desperate attempt to rid himself of his war nightmares, he locked them away in a box and hid them. It didn't work, though, and after a while, he simply forgot about their existence.
Then, he moved in with Sherlock. Such an eccentric man, he hardly ever had a boring day. Running around downtown London was never tedious. Even though his life had been put in danger more than just a few times, it was a part of his life he never wanted to end.
Well, it did and that was that. Sherlock was dead. John was alone again. 221B Baker Street never seemed lonelier; emptier. He couldn't bring himself to clean up any of Sherlock's mess. There were still experiments half-done in the kitchen and piles of newspapers on the coffee table and dining table. The sink was stacked high with dirty dishes.
John sat in his arm chair, staring at the chair across from him. In his mind, he still pictured Sherlock, shouting at the telly because it obviously wasn't his child, and how could she be so stupid? John almost chuckled at the memory, before he remembered it was just that. A memory.
The blond man told himself to go to bed, since it was late on a Wednesday night. He still had a good week before his leave from the surgery was up and he had to return to work. The rent was due in a few days. Surely Mrs. Hudson would understand, since Sherlock had only just died a 22 days ago. But he didn't want to fall behind.
With a sigh, he dragged himself up out of his chair and walked up the stairs to his bedroom. He opened the door and fell onto his bed. He didn't even bother changing or getting under the blankets, just wanting sleep to make his mind shut up for a while.
In all honesty, on the day he met Sherlock – January 29th – he had been on his way back to his flat to take his own life. He was tired of living in pain and agony. The nightmares were far too much for him to handle. Then, by chance, he ran into Mike Stamford and his entire life changed. Mike introduced him to Sherlock, and, putting aside the man's quirks and idiosyncrasies, led him to the happiest time of his life.
He hadn't contemplated suicide after that for a long while, but tonight, he felt the same despair he had before, only this time, he had a reason.
Well, he had a reason before, too. It just didn't seem like a very good reason in his own mind. Now, the person who saved his life was gone. He had no one else to live for. Sure, Greg and Mrs. Hudson were great- he loved them both dearly. But Sherlock was his best mate, and without him, he couldn't find anything to keep him going.
John remembered the last time he thought about taking his own life. He had started thinking about the most random things- his sister, the dog he had as a child named Alex... In this case, while suicide was on the forefront of his mind, his thoughts returned to his dog tags. He hadn't seen them in a while. Not since he moved, actually.
He rolled onto his back and sat up, leaning back on his hands. He took a breath, and got to his feet. He walked to his closet, searching his brain to remember where he had left those tags. They were definitely here somewhere, even if he didn't quite remember.
As he looked, the previous day was called to his mind, when both Mycroft and Greg visited him. Mycroft talked to him as Greg went into the kitchen to attempt to make them some tea. He somehow managed, and when he came back out with three cups, John pretended not to notice the quick smile they gave each other, like they both had a secret. John's only conclusion that maybe they had gotten together or something. He didn't ponder on it long.
"How have you been?" Greg asked, sitting down on the arm of the chair Mycroft was sitting in. He was sitting in Sherlock's chair. John cringed.
"Fine." he lied.
Greg and Mycroft exchanged another look, this time one of pure concern. The Detective Inspector turned back to him and said, "John, we're your mates. You don't have to lie to us."
"I'm not lying."
"Yeah you are."
"He's right, John." Mycroft agreed, taking a sip of the tea. John did, too, but quickly let it dribble out of his mouth, back into the cup. He wasn't sure what Greg had made, but it wasn't tea. He looked up, seeing Mycroft's equally-disgusted expression. But he took another sip of the tea, out of sheer politeness and concern for Greg's feelings.
"What- its not good?" Greg asked, his eyebrows raised.
John shook his head. "No, sorry- just hot."
To prove his statement, he took another sip. Greg smiled.
Mycroft cleared his throat and put the tea down on the coffee table between the two chairs. "As I was saying, its quite obvious that you are not fine, John."
"I am- I swear." John sighed, shaking his head. "Really, you two worry too much about me. What do you think I do now- just mope around, wallowing in self-pity and denial? Sherlock is dead." Greg cringed. Mycroft stared at his teacup. "I've accepted it."
They didn't believe him, naturally, and why should they? He was lying through his teeth to their faces, and they both knew it. They didn't push him, though. They stayed for a little while longer, but soon left, leaving him alone again.
John found the box. The small, wooden box that he put his dog tags in. It was a plain brown box, with no decoration or design. He wasn't sure where he got it, actually, or where it even came from. A bit nervous, he opened it, the hinges creaking. But all he saw was dust.
His dog tags were gone.
John fell back to sit on his rear on the floor, staring into the empty box. Had Sherlock taken them before he died? That must be it. It had to be. Where else could they have gone?
John sighed and got to his feet. He closed the box and put it on his nightstand. He sat back down on his bed, cradling his head in his hands. He stripped himself to his undershirt and boxers, and crawled into his bed, shivering a bit. Just before he nodded off, he made a note to search Sherlock's room for those damn dog tags.
Meanwhile, in America, a tall dark haired man sat in a restaurant up the street from his flat- er, no. Flat wasn't the correct term in America. It was an apartment. He sat with a cup of coffee, his hands in his black trench coat, staring intensely out the window.
"Not ordering any food, dear?" the waitress asked as she approached his table.
"No." he said curtly.
But the waitress insisted on being polite. Business was slow, and he figured she was looking for a larger tip. She smiled, wrinkles forming at the corners of her mouth and eyes as she did, and went on, "Those your dog tags?"
He looked down. Two silver metal dog tags hung from a chain, resting on his purple button up shirt. He picked one up.
"No, they belong to a friend of mine."
"Oh. What was his name?"
"Was." he turned to her, narrowing his eyes. "Why did you ask what his name was?"
"Well, I just assumed since you were wearing his dog tags, he was dead." she paused. "He's not dead, then?"
"No, he's very much alive in London. His name-" he hesitated- something he never did. "His name is John Watson."
a/n and there you go. I wrote this in about two hours, getting hit with inspiration like a brick to the head. WOW that was not a pun on Reichenbach I'm sorry I'll go curl in a corner now.
Review!:D