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John Watson is not a fragile man. He faces death and hurt and fear, and even when it is his own, he goes on. John Watson is not needy, not scared. He is not lonely. Not, not not. He does not miss the tsunami of black coat and bright eyes-
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That was Sherlock Holmes. No. Since-
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He hasn't been quite whole. At the funeral, Donovan had said, "Now, I didn't like the Freak. He could've used that massive brain of his to make things go a little smoother for everyone. But times come, I still wish he was here, because John is limping again, and the yaw of his walk is just painful to watch. I cannot look at John Watson without seeing his great big shadow. And John is one of the people in the world who deserve a shadow."
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Like Peter Pan, John feels cursed, chasing an echo of his shadow, stuck in the mass of debris. If Sherlock had been an explosion, John was his aftershock, his earthquake. Sherlock was the lights and the subtle poison. John was the warning shot. Keep away. The next one won't be so nice. He returned to the surgery, tried flirting with one of the nurses at the water cooler. She had looked at him sadly. "I know it's hard, Doctor Watson, but I don't console widowers outside of work." He left early that day. Called in a favor to one of the surgeons. They had just brought in a tall, lanky boy, suicide attempt. Ginger. Still, the stab through John's shroud cuts. He knew the moment he saw the boy, all knees and elbows, skin and bones, he'd be no use in that surgery room.
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Blood. It stains everything. Another year of working at the surgery and he might as well have drawn a pint and squirted it all over his work clothes. He spends the next year paying back favors. The last year at the surgery. John Watson is a good man. He works hard and does what he thinks is right. Good man. He works overtime that year, almost always in the ER. If you were lucky, you could see his greying blond hair, him walking beside a gurney, holding the patient's hand. In the end, he decides he's had enough dancing on the brink of death. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.
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He never does escape the shadow of Sherlock. He bloody well tries. It follows him on dates and asks stupid questions. It demands of him things he has deemed himself too old to give. He goes to Clara. They live together well. He teaches in the day, thanks to the ever-giving Mike Stamford. She studies botany in the night, while her kids sleep. John sees Harry once a month, when she visits the kids. They run to the door to hug her, high cries of "Mum!" Greeting Harry's business wear. She greets Clara with a terse nod, and the children make them all sit and watch telly.
Sherlock shows up on the back doorstep.
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AN: So I know I should be working on Ghost Tales, but I had this little ficlet and I thought, "What the heck?" Not Britpicked, so please excuse any inconsistencies. Anyone who can tell me what the ER in London is called or if I'm right about gurney gets a speck of psychic pollen!