Chapter 1
John chases after a young boy, maybe two or three years old. Although the years have been kind to John in looks, with only a few extra, and according to his son, barely noticeable lines around his eyes, inside, he is still an emotional wreck, haunted by the day his partner, his friend- his lover, took his life.
"Sherlock, stop trying to kill the seagulls!" He hears a familiar voice call a beloved name and looks round, hardly daring to believe his ears. But no. just Mrs Hudson calling the name of the second most precious person in his life; his son.
John finds it hard to remember why he decided to call his son after the most precocious, brilliant man in his living memory. Although it suited his tiny baby's dark curls and alert eyes, it still poisons him to call the name without his Sherlock coming running, or not, knowing his unpredictability, purple scarf over one shoulder and world weary violin in the crook of his elbow, so God knows how hard it would have been so close to the accident. Well, a year, but for John, a millennium away from that fateful day would still be too soon. Too soon to lose his precious sociopath.
His son, though, was certainly not completely wrongly named. Sherlock jr. still had messy dark curls and a constantly sceptical look on his face. Just like Sherlock, he noticed everything. For John, it gave him a punishing dose of the man he yearned for so deeply, so wildly. But he loved his son with the same passionate patience he had, still did love Sherlock Holmes with.
Walking back with his son in hand, fascinated with a small brown box they had bought the previous night at a small antique shop near Baker street, John reflects on his existence since he had been left. As if finding out that Molly was pregnant with his child after a passionate fling cause by and rooted in grief for their friend, he had also been offered a job as a journalist after an independent magazine had read his blog. For a few weeks, he had been almost as happy as when Sherlock was still around to tease him, lecture him, love him. But then one, tragic thing had occurred. Weeks after his young son was born, he been diagnosed with meningitis. It had been close for a few weeks, but baby Sherlock had fought, tooth and nail and was one of the lucky ones. But Molly had cracked under pressure, leaving John for... Anderson. That had been when John started slipping. He'd leave Sherlock in the arms of the less than willing Mycroft (not Mrs Hudson, she was already giving him an even more extreme discount on the rent- he didn't want to be a nuisance) and would go out drinking on his own, for days at a time, punishing himself for the events that had changed his life so dramatically, but he couldn't alter. It was only after overdosing on his prescribed painkillers and waking up in a cold, sterile hospital room he began to realise that whatever he did, nothing would bring Sherlock back.
Laughing slowly, John brings himself out of the trance he had entered, and pushes his key into the lock of 221b Baker street's blue front door. He still feels the hole in his chest that Sherlock left, but has learnt to put a brave face on. Every night, he reminds himself that Sherlock isn't going to suddenly reappear and kiss him on the forehead, promising never to leave him again.
he wasn't completely right, however...