Chapter 1: In Which John Suffers a Collision
John Watson awoke with the sun. He yawned, stretched, and pulled back the covers, setting bare feet on a cool floor to stimulate nerve endings in his feet and wake himself up more quickly. It was a trick he had learned in the army—not that there had been cool floors, of course, but anything to shock the body and prick the mind proved effective in getting a bone-weary soldier back on his feet and about the day's duties: a splash of water on the face, a quick stab of a pin in the center of the palm, a commanding officer shouting himself hoarse with insults and threats. The cool floor was by far the best option.
By the time he had descended the stairs and reached the sitting room, only seconds later, sleep had fled entirely. The flat was quiet, but not because Sherlock was still in bed. If he had ever gone to bed, that was. It was because he had already left. A sticky note was left behind on John's laptop: Case!
John smirked, then crunched the note into his fist. It must have been something exciting, something to pull him out of the flat before dawn. John was one part grateful Sherlock hadn't woken him, remembering he had work at the surgery that morning, and two parts disappointed that he didn't get to go. He liked being a doctor—loved it, actually—but sometimes he felt like a stodgy old man compared to Sherlock, what with the money-making, bill-paying, milk-buying, newspaper-reading, boring old flatmate, while Sherlock went to the playground to horse around with the other troublemakers and come home with bumps and bruises and splashes of mud and blood but grinning like a mischievous young cad.
He let the thought pass. After all, he knew Sherlock preferred it when John tagged along, and even though he griped endlessly about the fanciful storytelling in John's blog, John knew he read it religiously, and enjoyed it. They'd be out on a case together again soon enough.
In the meantime, though, he had to work. He checked his phone's calendar to review that day's appointments and other meetings. Same ol', same ol'. Sherlock had better have something for the both of them soon, he thought.
xXx
John Watson awoke with the sun. He yawned, stretched, and pushed the covers down to the end of the bed with his feet. For a few minutes, he just lay there, waiting for his body to slowly come online: eyes first, adjusting to the daylight, followed by ears perked for sounds beyond the bedroom; then flexing the fingers, the toes, and the blood began to flow more steadily to every limb. There was no real rush; he could take another hour, if he was a mind to. He might as well, in fact, get a little extra rest. But the morning called to him—hot coffee and warm scones, reading by the fireplace, a hot shower—so he rolled out of bed, slid into a dressing gown, and left the bedroom.
By the time he had finished in the bathroom and entered the sitting room, the sun was fully in the sky and filling both windows. The flat was quiet. Oh, that was right. Sherlock's new case. He had received the message to his blog about midnight the night before, and Sherlock was eager to get started on it, in part to get it taken care of and keep his calendar cleared for the next three days. He was probably an hour gone already, and John had slept right through it.
John smiled. So the morning really was his, to do with as he pleased. He could prepare properly for the evening. A long bath, then, maybe. And all the crap telly he wanted. He would push his errands into the afternoon—groceries, mostly—and have the sheets changed and the frozen dinners prepared by the time Sherlock came back. If there was time, if things weren't already underway, they might have dinner together—John made a mean lasagna—and Sherlock would regale him with another adventure. He loved the stories, couldn't get enough of them. Sometimes they seemed so incredible that he couldn't help but express his incredulity that Sherlock could divine ('Deduce, John! I don't divine, I deduce!') a man's profession by the calluses on his thumbs, but in truth, he never doubted a word. He just wished, sometimes, he could see more of it firsthand.
He let the thought pass. After all, he knew Sherlock moved as quickly and brilliantly as electricity, and John would only slow him down. He wasn't nearly as able-bodied, not to mention able-minded, and that was fine. He knew where, when, and how Sherlock needed him, and he was content with that, too.
Besides, he had his own work to do. He checked his phone's calendar, already feeling the tendril of anticipation beginning to warm him. A few more hours, and he would be the only thing Sherlock would be able to think about for days.
xXx
The morning was filled with migraines, sore throats, a crayon up a nose, a toy submarine up a rectum, and a three-days-neglected broken thumb.
During his lunch reprieve, John walked to the corner to buy fusion tacos from a food truck and check his phone. No messages from Sherlock begging him to drop everything and come. Just as well. He had missed enough shifts. But all the same, it would have been nice to struggle with the temptation.
It was overcast by the time John stepped out of the surgery and headed for home. Still pleasant, if only a little cooler with the breeze. He stuck his hand out for a passing taxi, but it trundled right by as if it didn't even see him. But the quick flare of irritation passed. No matter. The day was lovely. He would walk, ten minutes, twenty minutes, and try again. There was no rush. He checked his phone: 4:12. No rush at all.
xXx
The morning was filled with strawberry-scented bubbles, hot tea, an Antiques Roadshow marathon indulgence.
After finally dressing, John left the flat and walked to the corner to buy fish and chips from a food truck. There, he checked his phone. No messages from Sherlock asking if things had started yet or announcing when he would be home. Just as well. If neither of them said anything, it was just assumed that things were progressing normally. But all the same, it would have been nice to be asked.
He took a cab to run his errands, selecting groceries to be delivered to the flat over the next few days, all the while monitoring his pulse and temperature. It was overcast by the time he stepped back onto the street to head for home. Still pleasant, if only a little cooler with the breeze. He stuck out his hand for a passing taxi, but it trundled right by as if it didn't even see him. He shrugged. He was still feeling well enough, and his pulse was still steady. He would walk, ten minutes, twenty minutes, and if things changed, he'd be sure to be more assertive in flagging down a cabbie. For now, there was no rush. He checked his phone: 4:12. He whistled as he walked.
xXx
A gust of wind pushed him from behind, and John picked up his pace. The temperature was dropping fast, and a storm was blowing in. He threw up his collar to protect his bare neck, then put a hand out for a taxi coming his way, but it was occupied. Swearing under his breath, he turned left to take the footpath across the bridge, just as the first drops began to fall.
xXx
The first drops splashed against his neck, and John tugged his raised collar closer to his neck. The last taxi he had seen was occupied, and everyone else seemed to have fled indoors at the first sign of a storm. He was the only person on the footpath crossing the bridge. He picked up his pace, eager to get ahead of the storm and into the cozy indoors. He began counting his hurried steps: one, two, three, four . . .
xXx
. . . left, right, left, right, a military pace. Not far off, a flash of light, and a second later a tremendous clap of thunder that made his skin jump. The skies opened . . .
xXx
. . . and the rain fell like a deluge. John broke into a run. Breath passed in and out of his lungs sharply, and
xXx
his heart pumped a steady one-two, one-two,
xXx
one-two, when suddenly
xXx
John's vision exploded into blinding white light, the crash of colliding worlds filled his ears, and
xXx
he collapsed.