~A/N~ (I know people don't care about this but eh~)
Ta-daaaa~! My first ever fanfic published on this site. I feel accomplished. /shot/
First of all, a shout-out to my dear friend Marla! SURPRISE~ HAPPY BIRTHDAY GIRL! 8D This one is for you! :D I hope you enjoy this
Secondly, I'm sorry if this does not make any sense. I'll take it down and edit it if needs be. I want to get it out there that English is not my first language. So please forgive me for grammatical errors, spelling mistakes, and weird sentence structuring. Oh, and inaccuracies. OTL I don't have a Beta so I just proofread this myself. Constructive criticism is welcome though. :) It would be greatly appreciated as it can really help me develop as a writer.
And finally, it's slightly AU. Meaning, it's based on the show only a bit tweaked up. :D This was supposed to be a whole other story but I didn't want to depress Marla :P this is her gift after all. Anyway, ON TO THE STORY~!
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and BBC do. ACD owns the epic legacy known as Sherlock Holmes, not me. The Little Match Girl doesn't belong to me either, it belongs to Hans Christian Andersen. The plot (and therefore random people known as OCs), however lame and unoriginal it they are, somehow belongs to me.
John Watson stared at the empty seat in front of him, clutching a cup of breakfast tea in between his numb fingers absent-mindedly.
It had long gone cold, along with the half-eaten crumpet he had brought hours ago, which now lay completely forgotten on his plate. He was by no means hungry, but a text threatening to kick his ass if he didn't eat sent by his long-time friend Mike prompted him to at least try and look for a decent café.
The one he found was small and quaint, with only a handful of customers sitting in comfortable looking booths and tables scattered around the establishment. It wasn't terribly noisy, the constant murmuring of people milling about being kept at a minimum. The atmosphere really was quite nice, and the waitresses were cute.
But, despite this, the emptiness kept returning. The hole that was punched right through his chest after that happened didn't ebb away, and what little appetite he had managed to muster slipped away. Suddenly, he could hear the faint sounds of gun shots ringing out; his comrades yelling as they fought for their motherland; bodies falling to the floor in pools of blood and oh, Jesus no—
John inhaled sharply, shaking his head to rid himself of the dark thoughts threatening to overwhelm him. He would not break down in a public place. He used to be part of the English army, for god's sake.
"Do you need anything else, sir?" one of the waitresses walked over with a tray in her arms, smiling at him amicably. John looked up at her and shook his head, offering her a smile that was barely there.
"No, thank you." He told her, his fingers tapping against the cup he held. When she didn't look convinced he brought the cup up to his lips and said, "Really, tea is fine thanks."
The waitress smiled, "Then please, enjoy your stay Rosewood café." She tilted her head at him, concern flashing in her eyes before moving on to the next table. John watched her for a while before sighing heavily.
He must have looked like shit. John was quite aware of the darkness that hung over him and the blankness of his eyes that unnerved people. Watching people right in front of you changes a person, he thought to himself. You become damaged to the point of no return.
It was the price he paid for signing up in the army, not that he regretted it.
With another sigh, he pushed away the darkness pressing against his mind along with his crumpet and tea. There was no point in dwelling on the past. He still had to look for a flat to rent that his budget could cover.
He was just about to stand up when the sound of squealing tires broke the relatively peaceful ambiance of the café, followed by screams of panic. John jumped up to his feet and made his way outside, taking a hold of his crutch tightly in his hand.
As he emerged from within the café, people who were walking along the street rushed forward. Some were heading out of offices and shops nearby, craning their necks to see what happened. Quickly, John limped towards the small crowd congregating around the scene of the accident to see if anyone was injured. What he saw made him stop on his tracks.
A car had crashed into a lamppost, the front part bent around it. The hood had popped open and the windows had imploded upon impact, shards of glass scattered across the pavement. Both the steering wheel and the dashboard got smashed together, the air bag hanging loosely in between them.
But there was no body in the car.
John frowned as he scanned the area. The driver couldn't have just vanished into thin air, could he? That was impossible. Someone had to have been driving the car.
Soft sniffling reached his ears. Blinking, he turned around to see a little girl clutching the shirt of her mother tightly while she was fussed over, her rag doll lay abandoned on the street. Snapping into 'doctor-mode', he crouched down next to them. "Hey, are you all right?"
The little red haired girl looked up at him with wide, hazel eyes. She looked relatively unharmed. John could see small scratches on her tiny hands, which were cradled to her chest. "Don't worry, I'm a doctor." He tried to smile at her soothingly.
The girl moved closer to her worried-looking mother, who proceeded to pick her up. The brown haired woman narrowed her eyes at him in suspicion. "She's fine!" she snapped at him before quickly scurrying away, sending glares at him. The little girl twisted in her mother's grasp and stared at John intensely before disappearing from sight.
Raising an eyebrow at the hostility, John hefted himself up slowly using his crutch. "How rude," He huffed, straightening his jacket out. For some reason, that stare had unnerved him. It was as if she knew something he didn't.
"Joanne Becker, age 7, daughter of a jeweller and relatively known CEO who is currently locked in a heated stand-off with a rival company, usually seen with babysitter Nancy Scott, age 17, playing in Hyde Park at around one until three in the afternoon. Possible lead, if the car crash was any indication," a deep, baritone voice sounded behind him without pausing for breathe all of the sudden. John jumped in shock and twisted around, whipping his gun out of his pocket out of habit.
A man with a blue scarf wrapped around his neck was hunched down next to the car, examining the black marks left by the tires on the concrete ground. He had dark, curly hair atop his head. What John noticed next were his cheekbones—prominent cheekbones that could make any model jealous. Damn, those are sharp, John thought. The man was wearing a white dress shirt under a black suit, topped off with a long black coat. It really accentuated the lithe form of his body.
"If you are quite done ogling me, would you please get lost?" The man said, straightening himself up as he went around the car. "Your stupidity is encumbering my thought process. I'm trying to work here."
John blinked at that. "Excuse me?" he stepped forward, frowning down at Mr Cheekbones. "Did you just—"
The man tore the car door open, sticking his head inside quickly before slamming it closed again. "Typical."He muttered under one breathe, stunning blue—green, grey?—calculating eyes darting up and down the street. "Why strike now, in a place where there are a lot of witnesses?" He circled the car brusquely, his hands folded behind him.
John huffed at the interruption, stepping forward again. "I asked you a ques—"he reached out to grab the man by the arm as he said this but before he could even touch him, the stranger stalked away, tailcoats flapping out behind him. "—tion…" John trailed off, staring after him in surprise and irritation.
He stood there for a moment, trying to absorb everything in, before making a 180 degree turn. Pulling out his wallet, he walked back inside the cafe gripping onto his crutch tightly.
How he craved for a cuppa right now. Damn snobbish gits with sharp cheekbones and long cool coats.
"You look like shite." Mike Stamford said bluntly, nursing a pint of beer in his hands. He was sitting next to his mate John Watson, who was currently downing the rest of his own pint. He had called John up a few days ago, inviting him out. John had refused at first but eventually he agreed, albeit reluctantly.
Truth be told, he hadn't expected to see John in the park the day they crossed each other's paths for the first time in God knows how many years. The last time he'd seen the blonde was their graduation day before he got sent out of the country.
From what he'd heard, John was off in Afghanistan getting shot at. And apparently he did get shot while he was in the field, leading up to his being shipped back to London. He'd been staying in a hotel ever since.
They had talked for a little while, catching up a bit—"Are you still at Barts?" "Yeah, teaching now. Bright young things like we used to be. God, I hate them."—before his co-workers ringing up forced them to part ways. Phone numbers were exchanged—"Let's grab a pint sometime, yeah?"—and ever since then they'd been keeping in touch.
Mike watched his friend from the corner of his eyes, taking in the appearance of the smaller man. He'd lost weight and there were dark bags underneath his blue eyes, but Mike could see a slight spark of irritation flashing in those once lifeless irises every now and again. How interesting.
John slammed the beer down on the counter, wiping his lips with the back of his sleeve as he replied, "Stayed up all night looking for a nice and cheap flat to rent out." He raised his empty mug, calling out to the bartender, "another round please."
The other eyebrow joined its twin. "Tough luck I suppose?" Mike asked before taking a sip of his beer. John tilted his head to look at him as the bartender took his mug from him. "London flats are expensive, I'll tell you that." He thanked the barkeep when he got another fresh pint.
Arranging himself on his stool to properly face John, Mike suggested, "Why don't you look for a flat share or something?"
That elicited a snort from the other man. Lifting his refilled glass up to his lips, he mumbled "Who'd want a crippled army doctor as a flat mate?" He drank half of the liquor before putting it back down on the counter, watching people mingle in the pub.
There were a lot of young adults in the pub; mingling, drinking, dancing and doing something stupid. They all looked so carefree, it was laughable. John smirked wryly as he thought this. Lucky bastards,
It was only after a few minutes of silence did he notice Mike giving him a weird look. "What?"
With a laugh, Mike leaned back a little in his stool and said, "That's funny," Pulling out some money out of his wallet, he paid for his drink. "You're the second person to say that to me today." He turned to look at John, who was looking at him curiously with his eyebrows raised.
"Who's the first?"
St. Bartholomew's Hospital brought back a lot of memories for John. It was his Alma matter. This was the place where it all started for him.
And this was the place where he met the strange tall man with an attitude problem for the second time.
John limped after Mike down the hallways of St. Bartholomew, looking around him every now and again. They passed by the occasional classroom filled with students aspiring to become doctors, making the edges of John's lips twitch a bit. Poor bastards didn't know what they were signing up for.
"Hasn't changed much, hasn't it?" Mike called back to him as they walked, glancing over his shoulder with a light grin. John merely raised an eyebrow in return.
When they reached the door to the laboratory, Mike held a hand out to stop John from entering. Confused, he turned to give him a questioning look.
The brunette chuckled a little. "I just wanted to give you a bit of advice," he told John. Getting a raised eyebrow as a response from the shorter man, he continued. "He's a bit…intimidating."
Waving it off, John used his cane to push Mike's hand down. "Don't worry about me," he said, smiling a little. "I'm sure I've faced worse people than him, I can tell you that."
"If you say so," Mike said lightly. Shrugging, he pushed the door open and held it out for John, who nodded his head in thanks as he walked into the room quietly.
The walls were painted white, with various counters were placed against. These counters were holding microscopes, flasks and beakers holding chemicals, test tubes and other laboratory apparatus, and more were scattered around the counter found in the middle of the room. John shuffled around a bit as he took in the room as he said, "Bit different from my day."
Mike reached for a stool and pulled it forward so he could sit on it, grinning lightly. "You have no idea," he chuckled.
"Mike can I borrow your phone?" a familiar voice said casually from down the table, making John snap his head up. "There's no signal on mine."
Gaping, John stared at the git who had ignored and walked off on him a few days ago. He was sitting on a stool and looking into a microscope dressed in a black, fitted suit as he talked, not even looking up from what he was doing. John supposed he should have known he'd meet the asshole sooner or later, considering his luck, but damn it!
"It's you!"