John Watson lay on the couch of the flat in 221B Baker Street, snoring slightly with a book opened up on his face. He wore his usual jumper and jeans, but was barefoot, something he'd picked up from Sherlock. It was Saturday, in the spring. The window was open, letting in the sounds of London and the smell of rain. A cool breeze wafted in, ruffling John's hair and making him shiver. He sighed and curled up on his side, the book falling lightly to the ground. The tired army doctor didn't even stir. He looked peaceful while sleeping, more at peace than he'd ever been since Sherlock Holmes jumped off the edge of St Bart's Hospital.
It was one year, two months, and seventeen days post-death of the great consulting detective. John had been trying as hard as he could to get re-adjusted to life without him. He did most of what he used to; he woke up, he ate and slept and went to work. He made money and he went out to the shop. He even tried to go out on dates. Not that any of his relationships lasted long.
He didn't want to leave Baker Street, not yet at least. He liked being able to walk around the flat and see all of Sherlock's things, pretend he was there, wish that he would come back. But he knew that he wasn't coming home. So he went about his life as normally as he could. He missed Sherlock, and he missed his life. This new life without the high-functioning sociopath was boring, uninteresting. Something inside him longed for the insanity and the danger of being with Sherlock Holmes again. He'd accepted the fact, though, that he was dead. For good.
Having to go to work every day, John had become rather good at hiding his emotions. He could almost imagine the smirk Sherlock's face when (if) he ever discovered the emotional range that John had created for himself. Emotional restraint. Just like Sherlock. He had to do it, though. Everything reminded him of Sherlock now, from the IV bags to the syringes at work.
He sighed in his sleep again, murmuring Sherlock's name into the pillow, curling up tighter and burying his face further. He started awake and opened his eyes, inhaling deeply, almost able to smell the scent of Sherlock in the fabric.
A knock at the front door came and John sat up, sighing deeply and rubbing at his face in distress. It took him a minute, twisting to crack his back, and then groping around for his cane, trying to stand. He snatched it up and used it as a lever to help himself up, and then worked on walking down the stairs, clicking noisily on the ground.
Another insistent knock at the door made John sigh again. "Hold on!" he shouted, trying to concentrate on getting down the stairs. Take a step. Move your head on the railing, then lean on the cane so you can take another step.
He finally reached the door, unlocking it and throwing it open. Mycroft Holmes stood at the door, umbrella swinging in hand and a briefcase in the other. "Hello, Doctor Watson," he said, smiling without humour.
"Hello, Mycroft," John said, looking a little surprised. He hadn't seen Sherlock's brother since a few weeks after Sherlock's death. "Is something wrong?" he asked, noting the look in Mycroft's eye.
Mycroft smiled another uncomfortable-looking smile. "May I enter?"
John nodded. "Yeah, come on in," he muttered, stepping back to let Mycroft through.
After watching John struggle up the stairs for a few minutes, Mycroft was situated in Sherlock's old chair (it hadn't moved a single inch from where Sherlock had left it) and John sitting across from him. John licked his lips nervously and waited for Mycroft to continue.
The government official opened the briefcase and took out a thick file, handing it to John. John stared at the label on the folder, dumbfounded. He looked up at Sherlock's brother, then down at the fire. "Sherlock Holmes," he said, frowning, reading of the label. "Why are you giving me a file on Sherlock?" he asked, feeling a lump in his throat, flicking through the profile, not waiting for Mycroft's answer.
There were old documents and letters and notes, written in Sherlock's handwriting:
The woman: an obvious dominatrix. Intriguing.
Mycroft keeps bothering me about his stupid government cases. I swear, the next time he comes over and bothers me about it, I'm going to strangle him with dental floss.
John left today for Dublin. I wonder how long he's going to be there. I wonder if he's coming back. I wonder if he's all right. I wonder if he realises that I worry when he goes off without telling me. I worry he's not going to come back. He thinks I don't notice he's gone, but I do notice, after all.
John couldn't read any further, the tears beginning to form in his eyes, looking up at Mycroft and trying to swallow the lump in his throat.
Mycroft gestured to the file. "Continue on."
He kept going, looking at pictures now, pictures of his deceased best friend. Some pictures were with John, and some were of just Sherlock. One was of both Sherlock and John together, doubled over with laughter. It was real laughter, real smiles. And for some reason, John couldn't remember what they had been laughing at. And that hurt. A lot.
But it was the last photo. It was a picture of Sherlock, his hair cur shorter, wearing a sweatshirt and jeans. He was looking around a corner, a can of spray paint in his hands. And in the bright yellow paint from the case that John had dubbed "the Blind Banker", there were five words. The file fell from John's hand and spilled onto the ground. He stared at the date on the photo. Less than a week ago.
I BELIEVE IN JOHN WATSON. -SH
A/N: So, I've had this already published on a shared profile, called Dakotah Rowan. Unless you haven't noticed, I've decided to abandon that profile and re-publish all my stories back on my original.
Review if convenient. If inconvenient, review all the same.
Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock or its characters. All are property of Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.