I've decided to restart this story from the beginning. I apologize if that may irate some of you, but I felt it best. I do love this idea and wanted a fresh start because I was not happy with it before. So, here we go.
Post Reichenbach, pre Empty Hearse.
John violently jerked himself awake in bed. His breathing came in shallow bursts and he was drenched in sweat.
His dream had consisted of the supernatural and hunting the creatures with Sherlock.
Ever since Sherlock jumped off of St. Bart's committing suicide, these dreams have been coming every single time he dozed off. John steadied his breathing and went over the events of the dream in his mind.
Plane.
Adler.
Sherlock.
Exorcism.
Advancing relationship.
Too much too fast.
Sherlock being a git.
Hunting.
Monsters.
Violent death.
It all added up. Each dream featured Sherlock, the biggest secret he'd ever tried to keep from his flat mate, and some form of Sherlock leaving, whether it be by death or by choice, but, this time, he'd left Sherlock.
I suppose that's even worse.
Reluctantly, John heaved himself up to a sitting position and extended a shaky hand for the glass of water sat on the bedside table. He downed two nervous gulps and panted for breath. The days have blurred since that terrible day. A lot of people had given their condolences, and he'd smiled weakly through them, but no one would ever know the pain he'd truly felt that day.
It wasn't just his best friend he'd lost. It was everything. Everything they shared together, every adventure, every cab chase, every infuriating fight, every night sitting in a silent 221B just content with the other sitting across from them, every thing they should've done.
Everything they could've been.
They say Sherlock Holmes was the only one to die that day, and that's an arbitrary statement. It may be correct, but it's entirely too straightforward.
Two people had died that day.
Sherlock Holmes died by jumped off of St. Bart's and committing suicide. John Watson died inside as he watched the only person that mattered to him jump and was powerless to stop him.
John felt tears stinging in the corners of his eyes. It's been two years, damn it. He was supposed to be moving on and coming to terms with his best friends death, not dwelling on that day that still haunted him.
Thankfully, the clock only read 4:25 am, which meant he could sleep in another hour and thirty-five minutes. Unfortunately, his dream…nightmare, if you will, has woken him up for the better part of the next four possibly five hours. Hopefully, he wouldn't fall asleep at the clinic…again.
John sighed and rubbed his face. The only significant thing that dream had told him was that he hasn't gotten over his fear of flying, and he's been watching way too much of that American telly show Supernatural. Damn Molly for showing him her new man…crush? Obsession? Candy? Whatever it is they call it these days. Four in the morning is too early for thinking correctly. How Sherlock was able to function during the early hours, John would never know.
With a flick of the light blanket, John was out of bed and stumbling his way to the doorframe that led out of his room. He felt strangely light headed, but thought nothing of it and made his way down the stairs making a b-line for the washroom.
The lukewarm water felt oddly comforting against his face as he stood in the shower making little motion to actually cleanse himself of his night terror. It was sort of calming and relaxing. Even a bit symbolic.
John watched the water swirl down the drain and saw its untold metaphor. He decided then, that he was going to move on. Sherlock was dead, and that is that.
The past is in the past.
In the movies, they make the main character finally let go of something they've been holding onto and it seems like a weight's been lifted off their chest.
It's a lie.
John dried himself off slowly with the towel he'd set on the hanger. The "weight" of Sherlock still sat on his chest. Perhaps, it was a wound only acceptance and time would heal.
He grabbed the first pants and trousers he could find upon entry to his room and quickly half dressed himself. Why put off what was going to happen anyway in an hour? John grumbled under his breath about not thinking ahead for his shower as he made his way down the stairs and into the kitchen to set the kettle.
It felt odd. Yesterday, he'd set enough water boiling for two people and had even pulled down Sherlock's preferred teacup out of habit. Today, he'd set the perfect amount of water to boil for himself and still ended up pulling Sherlock's cup out. Well, it was progress at least. John huffed impatiently at the kettle and headed for the sitting room to pick up his latest read of J.R.R. Tolkien's "The Hobbit". Lately, reading about Bilbo's adventures has been great for him. It held a lot of good childhood memories of him and his father in it, and had absolutely refused to let his sister have it when she was leaving for college. John smiled at the beat up cover of the book and flipped open the fragile pages to his bookmark, intent on finding out for the hundredth time how Bilbo saves the dwarves from the wood elves.
A loud bang woke John up with a jolt. His book must've fallen off his lap when he'd dozed off. He quickly glanced at the time.
It's 6 already?
John was presentable for the clinic within fifteen minutes, the fastest in over two years. Amazingly, he was only twenty-five minutes late for his shift. Sarah gave him a passing glare, a silent request to see her in her office in between patients. John gave her a small, apologetic smile and went into his office.
"I'm sorry Mr…." he glanced down at the clipboard on his desk, "Mr. Smith. I had a rough night and came in late."
Mr. Smith smiled at him and laughed.
"It's fine, Dr. Watson. It happens to the best of us. Please, call me Matt."
John casted him a small smile in return, relief flooding him.
"All right, well. Let's get down to business. What seems to be the problem?"
The other man shifted a bit, obviously in mild discomfort.
"I…uh…I have some scratches that I'd like you to take a look at." Matt said.
John nodded his head. "Of course. Where are they?"
Matt shifted some more before lifting his shirt and revealing a nicely toned stomach before turning around to show off the marks on his back. There were three deep gashes that spread down the length of his back vertically. Each wound had traces on short, black hair sticking out from it and were caked in dried blood.
John's doctor side kicked in and he moved with swiftness, getting Matt to sit on the stool now vacated by him and brought out the necessary materials to clean the slashes.
"How long ago did these happen?" He asked.
Matt shrugged as much as he good while keeping partially still for John to clean the blood from his back before replying. "I was only attacked ten minutes ago."
That was unusual. These big of wounds matched with their deepness would equal massive bleeding and should still be bleeding now. John narrowed his eyes before continuing his work so he could accurately see the wounds on Matt's back. Maybe they just looked deep and the dried blood was deceiving him.
John continued on, gently cleaning the lines on Matt's back.
"Do you know how you got these? It looks like some animal attacked you. In fact," he pulled some of the dark fur out one of the wounds carefully, "it looks like wolf fur, if I'm not mistaken."
He let the fur drop out of his hands freely and returned to his work. John felt a small intake of breath from the other man.
"I was, uh," Matt sighed, "I was in a fight with an old friend of mine. Well, he's no friend of mine anymore, at least."
Silence fell between the two as John continued to dab at the gashes. An hour passed and the wounds had carefully been cleaned. Finally, he could examine them.
At first sight, the wounds looked slightly shallower than he originally thought, but not by much. The slashes were still very deep and looked to already be in advanced stages of healing.
"What do you think, Dr. Watson?" Matt queried.
John glanced at the other man and sighed. "Well, if you'd like my professional opinion, I would suggest surgery for how deep these wounds are, but since they've already closed up and seem to be healing fine, I'd say you should take some precautions in your choice of friends and keep those marks clean. Also, refrain from anything overbearing until they're fully healed. We shouldn't risk reopening them for a trip to the gym."
The other man pulled down his shirt once more and turned to smile at John. "Thank you, Doctor. You've been very helpful." With that, Matt stood and exited the room, leaving John to ponder the emphasis he'd just put on 'very'.
He blinked in repeated succession until his mind fully processed the events that just took place and vacated the plastic chair he'd been sitting in for the past hour. John winced at the dull ache in his back and bad leg. His limp hadn't come back, thankfully, but it did often like to remind him of its presence.
Slowly, John made his way to Sarah's office and found the door open with Sarah shuffling through what appeared to be paperwork on her desk. He knocked softly on the door and entered when motioned towards. Sarah pointed at the chair in front of her desk with a false stern expression. She keeps forgetting John had dated her and knew her mannerisms. Sarah's face read more concern than anything stern.
John sat in his appointed seat and waited for Sarah to begin, but was greeted with a soft sigh.
"Are you all right, John? This is the first time you've been late for your shift in over a year." Sarah mustered.
In truth, John had always been on time because he had nothing else to do. Now, he had a renewed sense to keep living the life of John Watson: retired army doctor.
"I overslept. I'm sorry." John answered.
Sarah rolled her eyes. "You keep forgetting John, I dated you. I know when you're not ok, and you're not ok."
"I've just…gained a renewed hope." He replied.
There was a brief silence before she responded with a raised eyebrow. "John, is this another 'Sherlock lives' theory?"
John scoffed. "Not everything I do revolves around Sherlock Holmes."
Sarah let out a small sigh. "All right. Well, you know that you can come to me for anything. I want you to know that you can talk to me. Oh, and if anyone asks, tell them I read you the right act for being half an hour late. Now off you pop."
He let out a small chuckle and nodded before exiting Sarah's office. John let a small smile sit on his face and thought about how today was going to be an overall good day.
The rest of his shift passed by slowly. Only two other patients had been scheduled and one of them had cancelled last minute. When the clock sang with the song of freedom, John quickly gathered his things and checked out, eager to get home to his book.
Night fell rather quickly after ordering some take out upon arrival back at the flat and John was rather wrapped in Bilbo's conversation with Smaug when the front door was thrown open. He sighed and set the book down slowly.
"Look, Mrs. Hudson. I've already told you I'm fine and I've gotten over Sher-" John's thought stopped in its track.
Staring at him across the hall was the evil bastard that had made his life a living hell for the past two years.
It was Moriarty.
Jim Moriarty.
He stood in his signature sleek suit, eyes blacked out entirely. John was utterly frozen. It's not possible. It just wasn't possible.
"Hello, Johnny." Moriarty purred. "Miss me?"
Jim ran straight for him and John had barely a moment to comprehend what was going on before a curly haired man smacked Moriarty with a frying pan hard enough that it reverberated off the walls. Moriarty dropped at John's feet and all he could do was stare at him. The only thing that peeled his eyes away from Jim's knocked out form was the realization that he'd seen that shade of perfect curl before.
"Hello, John." Sherlock panted. "Isn't this the part where you say 'welcome back'?"