'SHERLOCK!' John Watson woke with a start, images of his falling friend fading into the dull, weary haze of a Spring 5 AM. He couldn't understand why he was dreaming of that day; it had been 3 years. John missed Sherlock terribly, and he still couldn't bring himself to return to Baker Street, but still, he wasn't overwhelmed by grief anymore. He'd even stopped seeing his therapist the previous year, and he hadn't had a dream about him for months. John Watson was able to go out, work, and do things.
Shivering from both the bitter cold of his tiny flat on the edge of Croydon, and from the terrible dreams, he swung his legs around and his bare feet touched the frozen floor boards. He grabbed his cane (his psychosomatic limp had returned shortly after Sherlock's jump) and hobbled over to the jumper on the floor, limping dreadfully. He pulled the soft, woolly fabric over his head and hugged it close. He was cold, awfully so, and the thick lull of the warm jumper brought sleep back to his eyes. He grumbled and fell back into bed, pulling the duvet over his head, and blocking out the desperate morning. He decided that he wasn't keen to get back to his dreams of Sherlock.
Soon, far too soon for the liking of Doctor John Watson, his alarm beeped, informing his that it was time to get up, get dressed and drag himself along to court. John had busied his free hours with helping Lestrade with cases from time to time, and a particularly interesting villain was being tried on that bitter Sunday morning.
Six and a half hours later, John Watson walked out of court, stiff and groggy from sitting in silence for an unbearable amount of time. The verdict that was given was guilty, so at least the afternoon had been productive. His back ached from the desolate wooden stalls most court rooms had installed, and much like a cat in the sun, he stood on his toes and crunched his back, arms outstretched to the sides. His hand came into contact with a pile of books in the hands of a hunched very elderly gentleman, knocking them to the floor.
"Oh, my goodness! I'm so, so sorry!" blurted John, who quickly bent down to pick up the books, only to have his face smacked by the butt of the elderly man's cane.
"Don't touch my books, you rapscallion!" wheezed the old man, hurriedly, making another swipe at John, who dodged the second blow, cradling his bleeding cheek with one hand.
"Alight, alright!" spurted John. The old man began to say something, but the roar of traffic stole the aggravated words and stopped them from reaching the ears of a very baffled version of Watson.
John called into the surgery and disappeared into the bathroom for a while to clean up his face, leaving a small cut and an unobvious bruise.
"I know I'm not working today, but I have nothing better to do than sort some paper work." He explained as his secretary protested to him working yet more extra hours. "I won't take any patients, if having to pay me for over time is worrying our boss." He smiled and slipped into his little office.
After Sherlock's death, John lost himself in work. He worked over time shift after shift, refusing to sleep and only eating when Sarah showed up with food to keep him going through all the extra patients he took on. It wasn't until Lestrade suggested that he help out with cases that John stopped working so much. However, without Sherlock around he wasn't as essential, and often Lestrade would have to ask John to leave, and to stop calling up asking to help. However, as time went on and Sherlock turned into a happy memory, John started working normal hours, but still filled his extra time with left over paperwork.
After an hour, maybe two (John wasn't paying attention to the time) his door creaked open.
"Doctor Watson?" croaked a voice. John didn't look up.
"I'm sorry I'm not taking patients today. Who let you in?"
"I'm not here for medical advice." It was then that John looked up. In front of him stood the elderly man whom had attacked his so violently with his cane after the court case. "I'm here to apologise for my previous behaviour." A cough audibly linked to smoking accented the end of his sentence. John nodded a little and awaited his continuation. "I over reacted, I'm just so used to people trying to steal from me in this damn city." John nodded again and stood, turning away from him to look in the mirror at his bruise.
"You did hurt me, you know." The elderly man moved so John couldn't see him in the mirror.
"Again, I greatly apologise. I'm so sorry John, so sorry." There was a swooping sound of cloth which startled John and he turned. Before him, the elderly man had melted away and in his place stood a tall, young, dark, curly haired Sherlock.
"You... oh God... oh God... You bastard... Oh..." John stumbled forward. Sherlock opened his arms to take John into them. John fell against his chest. "Oh Jesus... you're real... it's actually you... I... YOU BASTARD!" John punched him clean in the face before fainting.
