So I did a story a couple of months ago about John and Sherlock getting together. I said then that I might make a prequel one-shot about what I think will go down when Sherlock reveals that he's alive, and so I started this story. However, as it happens, I couldn't make it work as a one-shot, so it is now a several chapter story, this being the prologue. I imagine there will be about 3 or 4 chapters all together, but we'll see!
I Wait For You Always
When you lose someone, you lose a piece of yourself. That's what people always say. A piece of your heart and your soul are torn out and you are left broken and bleeding. John Watson didn't agree. As he sat in the one-bedroom apartment he was renting in the outskirts of west London and thought about the saying, he couldn't agree less. Harry had said it once, he thought. When Clara had left her, and she was looking for an excuse for while she had started the second bottle of wine that day when he came to see how she was doing at 11 in the morning, she had said something like that. Admittedly it had been a bit hard to make it out since she was slurring and she would mumble "Clara" or "need something stronger than this Chardonnay shit" in the middle of sentences, but he had understood the gist of it. But what did Harry know? Clara had just moved four blocks away and they would have the occasional Facebook conversation before they eventually got back together. Harry had no idea what she was talking about. Because in the quiet apartment that was so lacking in life and the strumming of a violin and constant bickering and happiness John had grown used to over the past few years, he didn't feel half or torn apart. He felt empty. He felt, in the gloomy light of the kitchen/sitting area/hallway, like someone had taken a shovel and scraped his insides clean of anything resembling a heart or a soul anything what-so-ever. In a way, he was happy that he had turned into some kind of emotionless zombie, because, he figured, numbness was better than pain. He had done pain, and he didn't miss it. For weeks, maybe months, he had done pain. Horrible, agonizing, unbearable pain, and he didn't want it back. He didn't miss the public breakdowns or shouting at Mrs. Hudson over nothing or waking up in the middle of the night from body shaking sobs. He didn't want that back. Yet he didn't want the numbness, either. The seclusion and the fruitless meetings with his psychiatrist telling him he needed "closure" like there was some button he could push that would make everything better. At least she wasn't pushing blogging on him this time, but it all still reminded too much of the time after the war, before he had met Sherlock.
BS. Before Sherlock.
He didn't want that back either. He just wanted Sherlock back. That was what he wanted to tell Dr. Friedman every week as she asked him how he was doing and what he was feeling. "I WANT HIM BACK!" he wanted to shout at her and her stupid note pad and her stupid ballpoint pens. Because he didn't want closure, not at all. What the hell was he supposed to do with closure?
BS. Bullshit.
No, he just wanted Sherlock to not be dead and he wanted to pack up his things and move back to Baker Street and Mrs. Hudson and he wanted her to make them tea. He just wanted to be home. But nothing was home anymore. Even Baker Street, which had been the place where he had felt the most safe in his life despite the constant break-ins and murders, had become a never-ending, nightmarish memory of what he had lost. His home wasn't his home anymore because the key component in his security, in his life, really, had thrown himself off the roof of Bartholomew Hospital. The prick.
BS. Backstabber.
There you go! The first part is done! Now all that's left is for me to actually stick with this all the way (and I will , promise) and all shall be well. Feel free to review or favourite or just continue with your day (but reviewing sounds like more fun, right?) Bye!