No Happily Ever After

Hello.

Are you ready for the story?

This is the story of Sir Mopes-a-Lot...

John Watson's life had, inevitably, been turned upside down on June fifteenth. Four words, "This is my note", one plea, "Sherlock!", and one fall. One fall that lasted only seconds. But one fall that would have consequences that lasted much longer.

Pain. So much pain. John had never been a stranger to pain, being a war doctor, but he had never experienced so much pain. He lost track of the pain, after awhile. He lost track of the time. The pain overtook everything, but John couldn't even hang onto that. It was a time in his life where he had spiraled into something dangerously close to what most would call dark. But it wasn't just darkness- it was life without Sherlock.

Sherlock had been the light in John's life. He had been the flickering flame that kept the doctor from falling headfirst into a chasm of loneliness. The flame had been extinguished. Life had been had. Blood had been spilled. Sherlock was gone.

John had become a shell. Something that was left over from the days of Sherlock. A robot, a machine, complete with a walk-and-talk function but still not quite... human. And John didn't know how long those days lasted- how long he stayed in the dark. Until one day, when he had woke up, he was staring at an unfamiliar ceiling, in an unfamiliar bed, surrounded by unfamiliar things that had become his new life.

He had tried, after that. He had tried to somehow find his way back into a life once lived. He had found that nothing was the same.

There was still... absolutely nothing that was the same. But John Watson had returned to life. He wouldn't get a happy ending to this messed-up fairy tale, but he'd damn well witness the ending anyway.

Sir Mopes-a-lot was the most depressing and cynical knight at the Round table. But soon, the other knights began to grow tired of his dismal attitude and depressing demeanour, and some of them began to wonder...

Is Sir Mopes-a-lot ever happy?

Three years had gone by from that dark time to this softly glowing period. Things weren't the same. But John had the mild impression of normalcy working again. That was the most that people could ask for.

John glanced towards the window of his flat, blinking tiredly. He'd gotten on well enough at the surgery, after he had re-emerged from his therapy sessions and dark despondency. There was a particular strain of virus going around all of London, it felt like, and John was treating up to six cases of it a day. It was not particularly outstanding- just a fever virus- but the constant in-and-out of patients in the office had worn him down. He was to the point where he was sure that he was coming down with the illness as well. He couldn't be sure, though. He spent a lot of days wondering if he were coming down with something, when the truth was that he had never really recovered from the worst illness.

He raised a hand to his head wearily, rubbing his forehead hard. There was pain building there; whether it was from lack of sleep or illness, John didn't know. He didn't like to self-diagnose. He always tended to stretch the facts. He didn't need something else to worry about.

Oh, no. So, one of the knights went to King Arthur and said "I don't believe Sir Mopes-a-lot will change. He's just a lost cause with no hope of ever recovering".

And then... Even the King began to wonder...

John would have hit the duvet had he not ordered a take-away; he was mildly sure that eating was good for him. He didn't feel like eating. The hunger just wasn't there. He ate, simply for the fact that worse things would happen if he didn't. He didn't want to eat, but he did, and he now understood why Sherlock had always wanted to skip breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

However, unlike Sherlock, John relished in sleep more than he used to. At first, he had avoided sleep. He had gone straight days without really sleeping, drinking too much tea and making too much coffee in the downtime. He had dealt with hallucinations in the end, Sherlock whispering demands into his ear, demanding that he took a kip, for God's sake. John knew that no sleep for any extended period of time could cause hallucinations. By the time that John actually passed out from overexertion, he hadn't known if he had purposefully gone seeking those hallucinations or not. The simple explanation was that he hadn't wanted to sleep in fear of dreams. The more complex explanation... Well, John wasn't even sure if he had figured out the answer to that.

The doorbell rang, a solid knock following. John removed his face from his hand, standing too quickly. Pain rushed down his legs, the feeling of pins and needles stabbing at him tenfold as he gripped his cane tighter between his fingers and put the weight of his body on that. Bloody thing. Psychosomatic. He knew going back to the cane had been a sign of weakness, a sign of giving in and giving up. But, he hadn't cared. He had gone back to the cane, nearly incapacitated by the inability to stand on his own.

But, was that the end of Sir Mopes-a-lot's problems? No.

It wasn't, was it?

John limped to the door, sliding the chain and opening the door. "How much do I owe you?" he asked absentmindedly, fishing in his pocket for the money that he knew he had had earlier. There'd been quite the betting match on rugby at the pub, so he was quickly losing out on money well-earned. That was fitting; he was always the one losing, never the one winning.

"Nothing at all."

John's head snapped up before his mind had even collected the thoughts suddenly shooting through his head. That voice. He knew that voice. Only one person had that voice...

None other than Sherlock Holmes was standing in John's doorstep, box of take-away in one hand, a shopping bag in the other.

"Hello... John."

The grip on his cane faltered, he felt himself tipping, falling, noticed the odd look passing Sherlock's face. That's when John's senses became lost to him- a gray mist covered his vision and blocked out the most surprising display in front of his eyes yet.

When he came to, he came to dark curls, pale skin, curious eyes- were they green, or were they blue?- directly in his line of vision.

"Ah, John, you've finally come back around. I did expect for my reappearance to be a shock to your system; however-"

John jerked backwards in the chair he was sitting in, his back hitting the unyielding wood harshly. Wooden chair meant kitchen, John realized belatedly, blinking hard as he took the hesitant look away from Sherlock and around the room. Yes, he was in the kitchen. Take-away, steaming slightly, the smell of pasta wafting out to him, was sitting on the table, along with the shopping bag that John had seen (thought he'd seen). He looked back to Sherlock (or Sherlock's apparition) with some trepidation.

Sherlock had stopped talking and had settled himself with giving John one of those hard-earned looks that Sherlock had usually reserved for deduction. John licked his lips, somewhat nervously. Sherlock seemed to be returning the nervousness (it had to be a hallucination, had to be, because Sherlock didn't have emotion) as he shifted his weight from left foot to right foot.

"So, uhm," Sherlock started, seeming at a loss for words. He had to be conjured from John's mind, he had to be an illusion, he had to be... "I bought milk," Sherlock stated firmly, gesturing in his lethargic way to the shopping bag. "And I paid for your take-away... Still sticking with the Italian place, then? There's another one across town that you haven't been to... It's new, but it's nice."

If Sherlock had had something else to say, he didn't get the chance, because John suddenly leaned forward and clapped his hands around Sherlock's arm. Sherlock didn't flinch although new apprehension flared up in his eyes. "Yes, John?"

"You're..." John's breath left him in a rush as he gripped Sherlock's elbows. "You're not real..."

Sherlock frowned, his frown that was usually reserved for idiots. "Of course I'm real, I'm standing right here. Good God, John, has your mind really deteriorated that much?"

John flinched delicately. Of course his mind had deteriorated. He had deteriorated. What did Sherlock expect- oh, God, he was thinking like he was real, he was thinking like Sherlock was actually here.

"John."

"Sherlock-" Despite his conflicting emotions, John found the notion of Sherlock being here, being real, being alive... He gripped Sherlock's elbows tighter and drew the detective close, earning a half-muffled huff from Sherlock as John wrapped his arms around him. "You're alive- you really-" he trailed off on a sob, sucking a deep breath in to regain some control.

"Yes... Yes, I-I am, aren't I?" Sherlock muttered, a half laugh on his breath. "Curious how these things turn out."

John broke the hug, pushing Sherlock away to an arms-length distance again. "How did you-" John trailed off, taking another deep breath. Sherlock's eyes were on him, locked on his, no doubt assessing every flash of emotion that passed the doctor's face. John, his tongue catching on every word, his throat locked up against any verbal complaint, only frowned. He couldn't tell if he wanted to hug Sherlock again... or punch him. Unfortunately (or fortunately), his emotions were too tousled for him to decide one way or the other.

"So... Pasta and milk?" Sherlock asked, striding away from John and the cabinet. He nicked a mug from the shelf and looked back to John, eyes questioning. "Or...?"

"Something... something stronger than milk, I'd imagine," John said after a moment, smiling faintly as he stood.


I finally started my rendition of The Reunion. Another overrused idea! This is going to be a two-shot. I meant for it to be a oneshot, but found I can't rush it that much, and I didn't want it to be extremely long. I'm sure you can imagine how the second chapter will go; first, the shock, and then...

Regardless, this can be read as a oneshot if you want it to be.

Your thoughts are welcomed. (: Thanks for reading!