Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock in any way, shape or form. Any names, places or people that you do not recognize are fictional. I own nothing but the plot of this particular fiction and my own original characters.
-;-
One year.
It had been one year since the Reichenbach Fall. The one case that had cost John Watson Sherlock Holmes, and essentially everything that had kept him anchored since he'd returned from Afghanistan, nothing more than an empty shell of misery and hate and loneliness.
His leg rarely bothered him these days, the stiffness only settling in short bursts during the fall and spring seasons and lasting about as long. But there was now a hole where he supposed his heart should have gone. A bleeding, bloody and bruised mess of muscle that was supposedly incapable of 'breaking'.
And yet, here he was with a broken heart. Sitting on the same couch that he and Sherlock had shared, however reluctantly, during the evenings. The thin wraith of a man, always leaning back and staring up into the light above with such a look of concentration; John had always been mildly concerned that the younger Holmes would eventually turn himself blind. Even after they would bicker for hours about whether or not it would actually do so before John pulling the doctor card on Sherlock and the other man retreating to his inner world so as to sulk. In reality, he splayed himself out over the expanse of the couch, limbs invading John's personal space, and narrowed his vibrant eyes balefully at him until he either vacated the couch or heaved a sigh and apologized, even though it hadn't even been his fault in the first place.
He constantly found himself musing on what could have been.
There were, of course, those unsaid feelings that he'd never had the chance to say to Sherlock. Of how he'd become such an inspirational man to him in such a comparatively short period of time. Of how even though neither of them could stand one another at times, they still orbited around one another and 221B Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson, of course was the resilient glue that held everything together; though she was a bit vague at times, and never really did have the heart to tell them that she honestly wasn't their housekeeper (which she unconvincingly, doggedly continued to pursue no matter how many times Sherlock had given her that knowing look and quirked his brow in a just-so fashion). Nonetheless, they were all collected together in a vague group that some could consider being a dysfunctional family if nothing else. From John's point of view, if he wasn't chasing after Sherlock for some case or another, he was resisting the urge to throttle the man for his sheer obnoxious and haughty mannerisms. Then again, he supposed that that was better than being assumed to be a pair of homosexual men at first sight. That had been a slightly awkward situation, to say the least. Not to mention the reaction, or rather, lack thereof, from Sherlock. In fact, he could have sworn that the faintest of smirks ghosted across the consulting detective's sharp features for the barest of moments.
Afghanistan had changed him, warped him into something that he wasn't entirely certain that he would ever manage to keep locked up in the darkest corners of his mind. Though he was a doctor, a healer, someone who was meant to help those who were wounded, the war had taken all of his ideals, everything that had made him human, and changed him into a mindless machine, barely functioning as he sewed up one patient after another, as though they were simply dolls, mere broken toys rather than the people they were. Who had families waiting for them back home; wondering, waiting, hoping, praying. Praying that their loved ones would come home safe and in one piece rather than hoisted upon their comrades shoulders in the barren caskets that were hurriedly put together before they were shipped back.
But then he'd been one of those who had come back in more than one piece, by most definitions. Nothing more than a hollow, empty shell; scarred and hardened by the hardships he'd endured. And in less than sixth months, he'd been unintentionally adopted into that odd pair from Baker Street. Slowly but surely pieced back together again by the challenge and thrills that came from being within the presence of Sherlock Holmes.
And John could say with all certainly that it was worth every moment, every single second that he was being dragged off somewhere or being drugged or kidnapped or even having a bomb strapped onto his torso….he felt complete. Like some hole that he'd had was slowly being refilled with a cement not made of hard, rigid stone, but something much softer. The warmth of the fires that he and Sherlock would sit in front of on Friday evenings, and the sounds of the heart wrenchingly intricate pieces of music Sherlock played whenever he was deep in thought, and the people around him, slowly putting everything back into place that belonged. It was astonishing at how many people cared about him; not as another doctor in the field, expected to fix everyone with little regard to his own health, but as another 'victim' to have fallen prey to Sherlock Holmes' volatile mood swings, and that face that quickly became a regular occurrence around the neighborhood grocery stores. Just another mundane face to be lost in a crowd.
Just like Sherlock had become. Not someone with the extraordinary deduction skills and intelligence that surpassed a great deal many of the most upheld men in society, not someone who mattered because of who he was. Just a fake, a fraud; someone who had bought and cheated and lied their way to the top of the food chain, only to come crashing down like a tsunami once they were found out.
He couldn't stand it. Hearing all of this pity and contempt flying from peoples' mouths as they spoke of him; the great Sherlock Holmes, reduced to nothing but a fairytale or a myth- something to be laughed at by his peers, his equals, his allies. The people that he had trusted most turning their backs on him and simply walking away from him when John knew in that moment when he had heard that desperation, that Sherlock needed them more than they would ever know. He needed to be acknowledged, because that was who Sherlock Holmes was. He wasn't simply the master of deduction or that sarcastic moron or the freak. He was a human being; someone who needed to know that he was wanted, was needed. And as soon as he'd realized that, John had suddenly realized how much that he'd needed Sherlock, too. Mycroft, of all people, had been the one to show him that. The one person who'd perhaps known Sherlock better than anyone else, perhaps not; the mysterious man who'd sought to protect his little brother when no one else would because that was just Mycroft. All this time, his intentions had not been malicious, as Sherlock always seemed to be convinced. The eldest Holmes had genuinely been concerned about his younger brother's welfare, and didn't want anything to happen to him should he ever not be vigilant.
Of course, it was too late to tell Sherlock all of these revelations. It was too late for John to tell him how much he needed him to ground him, to keep him from collapsing back into that thing that Afghanistan had bred him to be. It was too late for them to try and save the man who had never been the one who wanted to be rescued; after all, he was perfectly capable to do so on his own, he would always say stubbornly before sulking on the sofa for several hours. No one could convince the invincible man that he was someone worth believing in. He'd done things that most could only wantonly dream of accomplishing. He'd rescued hundreds, pissed off more than his fair share of the populace, and befriended John Watson in less than five minutes. That in itself was something that should be celebrated, not mourned.
But if there was one thing that John Watson could do, it was survive. He'd survived through Afghanistan, survived through having his comrades shot down and torn to shreds in front of his eyes, survived the vivid flashes of agony that had torn through him when that shrapnel had hit him, when the bullet had burrowed into his flesh. Through all of the makeshift hospitals and camps that he had endured on his arduous journey to simply get back to civilization that was capable of providing the appropriate care for his wounds. Through all of the hallucinations from the blood loss, and the nightmares that haunted him throughout his recovery. All the way up to the point that he walked into that laboratory and saw Sherlock sitting there; giving him that critical look, as though he might have seen a speck of dirt marring his face or some such thing. And if he could survive that, then he could survive this.
He just didn't know that it would be so hard.