Eye of the Tiger
Even though it was a pleasant 20 degrees with a clear blue sky and just enough of a breeze to give a fragrant edge to the air, for all John cared it was as dull and grey as it had ever been. He had brought himself around to go out and get some air in the park after a day of sitting in his flat with nothing but his own thoughts to fill the time resulted in the worst nightmare he'd had in years, but now that he was here, he wished he'd gone somewhere else. Somewhere where there were no joggers or people playing sports, no people having a great time, hanging out with friends or lovers and basking in some rare British sunshine. A calm and quiet place where didn't have to watch out for his cane being mistaken for a stick by stray dogs, or be careful not to break his neck by tripping over equally stray children.
Unfortunately, the only calm and quiet place he could think of was the one place he absolutely could not go, should he not wish all the work his therapist had done so far to go to waste. Some days, going to the cemetery was exactly what he needed, when the urge to talk, to put all the pain and emptiness into words, to say something inside him grew so big and loud and heavy that he couldn't bear it any longer and the two words on a large black stone were the only thing he could stand to hear him. Those were good days, in a way.
Other days, the mere thought of the stone and what or rather who lay under it was enough to make him sick to the point of literally being sick. Those were bad days, and today was a day of the latter kind.
So John limped on, hating and welcoming all the distraction the park could offer him. He was just on his way back, contemplating whether he would get some coffee from a nearby stand or not, when he heard someone behind him calling his name.
'John! John Watson!'
He turned around. A large, broad-shouldered man with a sunburned face, dishwater hair and a three-day beard had been sitting on a bench and was now walking towards him. 'You probably don't remember me' he grinned. 'Moran. Seb Moran. We were at Helmand together.'
John indeed didn't remember, but felt there wouldn't be any use admitting it. 'Of course,' he said, shaking the outstretched hand. 'Seb. Hello.'
He didn't really look forward to chatting with an old comrade. He could do without chatting about the weather, the war, life in general and how fucked up it was to try and live a normal life after all you'd seen and done. In fact, all he wanted was to say hello, falsely promise to catch up another time make some excuse and go home.
Seb, however, had other plans. 'Let's get coffee,' he said still grinning. 'I've been dying to see an old brother in arms here in London. Only people who know what you're talking about, eh?'
A few minutes later they sat back on the bench, cautiously sipping their coffee.
'What happened?' John asked after a few minutes of remarks about the weather and London in general. As far as he could see, the man was in great shape both physically and mentally, yet here he was in sitting on a bench in a park in London instead of crouching behind a gun in Helmand.
Seb shrugged. 'PTSD started a little early. Turns out panic attacks in the field are rather frowned upon, so they gave me a medal, Her Majesty's compliments and a ride home.'
Unfortunately for Seb, John had spent a little to much time with people lying through their teeth about a variety of topics to not notice the signs, subtle as they might be. There wasn't even a hint of truth concealed behind a cloud of lies; it was a massive fairy tale, magnificent in its simplicity and could-be-true-quality, but ultimately untrue. The way it was told, with such ease as a student explaining why they are late for school, made John sit up and inconspicuously take note of the man.
It seemed to John that not only Seb's story was false, but his whole air of geniality and friendliness was just a mask as well. There was nothing that betrayed him, in fact, everything about him appeared perfectly normal and that was precisely what gave him away. With every other ex-soldier John had met after being back in London, there had been some traces of their military background, sometimes even of their physical or mental scars. It wasn't much: a quick glance to take in the surroundings, a slight tension in posture at an unexpected noise or their bearing in general.
Seb was as relaxed as anyone could be. But there was something forced about it, some underlying tension triggering all John's senses and making his hackles rise and the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He'd wager anything the man had never been in Afghanistan, or if he had, he hadn't been in the army. He was used to violence, that much was true, but it was a different kind of violence, one entirely devoid of moral codes and integrity. The man exuded danger like a fire exuded heat.
He was starting to suspect their meeting hadn't been entirely coincidental when something else hit him and made his skin crawl.
Him limping in the park. Walking past the bench. The exact same fucking bench, now he came to think of it. Someone calling out behind him. Getting coffee together with an old friend he hadn't seen in years.
Shit.
When one has lived with Sherlock Holmes, one learns to dismiss the possibility of chance as an easy way out. If John's alarm bells hadn't been ringing before, they sure were now.
Then Seb casually asked the question that sent the bells into a clinging frenzy.
'And how've you been eh, here back home? I heard you got yourself involved with that fake detective, whatsisname, Sheldon?'
'Sherlock,' John answered carefully. 'Yeah, we shared a flat for some time.'
'Oh, I heard you shared a bit more than just the flat,' Seb grinned. 'I read the blog, you know. Partners in crime, was it not? Or partners against crime, rather.'
John smiled insincerely. 'We solved some cases together, if that's what you mean. Nothing else, really. Just friends.'
Seb returned the smile. It was clear he heard the bells that continued to sound their alarm in John's head and he obviously enjoyed the clanging. John suddenly wished he was armed. Shooting a man in broad daylight, in the middle of a crowded park might not be the most sensible thing to do, but the weight of his gun would go a long way to reassure him.
'Shame,' Seb suddenly said. 'Fake or not, he must have been a clever guy. You'd think setting up all those crimes would take as much effort as solving them, right? But of course, you'd know, wouldn't you? Being his flatmate and all? Was he a super hero or a master villain?'
John's brain helpfully conjured up the image of Sherlock scoffing at the idea of heroism. Sherlock would never have forgiven him if he started calling him a hero now. A small, rebellious part of John reminded him that the dead are not aware of things to be forgiven, but he squashed it and went with the part of him that still wished to please his friend.
'Not the master villain,' John answered slowly, 'but I wouldn't say he was a hero, either. He did what he did best, that's all.'
Seb grunted a noncommittal noise.
John used the following silence to do some danger assessment. As far as he could make out, Seb was unarmed. He couldn't make out any people watching them more closely than they ought, so apparently, at this moment, the man was working alone. His questions, on the face of it, were aimed to get at Sherlock, not John, which made no sense. He'd get back on that later.
A thought struck him and he turned around, seemingly searching for something but in reality glancing at the security camera on the coffee stand.
Terrific.
'What is it?' Seb asked.
'Nothing,' John replied, hurriedly trying to find a believable explanation. 'Just thought I heard someone call my name.' With all the people in the park, it was a very likely lie.
Seb didn't question it.
'Do you miss him?' he asked suddenly.
There was no need to fake anything about his reply. 'Of course I do,' John said, only a little annoyed at the blindingly inconsiderate question. 'He savedmy life, in more than one way. He was part of my life. As you said, we were partners in crime. So yes, of course I miss him.'
The distraction of talking to and trying to figure out what Seb was doing had done much to distract John from the sick and hollow feeling of grief that had caused him to go into the park, but now it returned in full force, landing in his gut like a particularly heavy chocolate pie on an empty stomach. He heaved a sigh and scrubbed his face with his hands, silently forcing all his pain and anger to stay inside. The situation was bad enough as it was, and would most certainly not benefit from a breakdown.
'I really miss him,' he repeated quietly.
It hadn't escaped his notice how Seb had been watching him intently. 'I see,' the man answered softly. 'I do apologize, that was a bit tactless.'
'Yeah, just a bit,' John said, but he was too busy trying to regain control over himself to put any sting into the words.
'It's a bitch to find proper accommodation in London, don't you think?' Seb said, changing the subject so entirely and completely John had to make a mental u-turn to keep up. 'I mean, I've found this place, lovely, affordable, everything, but I can't move in until next month. I'm staying with my sister now, but she's quite getting tired of me, and I of her. She's got a kid, you know, little brat does nothing but screaming and wailing and nagging for sweets all the livelong day. Pulling my nerves to shreds, the whole time.'
John nodded sympathetically and blundered straight into the trap. 'No friends who could help out?'
Seb shook his head. 'No, I'm afraid not. Don't know anyone around here, except for you. Hey, I don't suppose I could… I mean, would it be possible for me to kip at your place for a few days? Two weeks, at most?'
He rubbed the back of his neck and looked at John sheepishly.
Despite himself, John was very, very tempted to say yes. Of course, inviting Seb into his house, knowing or at least suspecting what sort of a man he was, would be an act of monumental stupidity and incredibly dangerous. Then again, so had been the decision to start living with Sherlock Holmes.
But at least something would happen to him again. He was sick and tired of this empty life, getting up, going to work, coming home, going to bed, having nightmares and do it all again the next day, and the day after that and the week, month, year after that, without anything ever changing. Not anymore. He yearned, oh, how he yearned for the thrill of the wild and unexpected, the unknown and possibly lethal danger lurking around every corner. Living with Seb could bring it all back.
Except not really. The difference being of course that with Sherlock it had been about running together, the two of them against the world, whereas with Seb, he'd still be on his own and the danger would be coming from inside. There would be no place to run to, nowhere to be safe.
He could do without that.
A chime from his phone interrupted the stream of thoughts. The message confused him for a split second, and then in an instant became crystal clear.
Please don't kill yourself, John. I'd never forgive myself. Talk to you later. X Anthea.
'What's that?' Seb asked, suspicious at the change suddenly come over him.
John swallowed a grin. 'Nothing, just a friend.' He paused, suddenly seeing the perfect way out of this mess. If other people could throw the truth out of the window, so could he.
'I phoned her last night, telling her how tired I was of it all and how it'd be best for me to just jump into the Thames and be done with it. Still don't know whether I was serious or not, but it got her worried all right. Seems she wants to keep an eye out.'
Seb swallowed the story completely. 'I see,' he said. 'Thoughtful of her.'
John shrugged and decided to go for it. 'Did the same for her, once. She's just returning the favour. But anyway, I don't think it would be a good idea for you to stay with me. Sorry, nothing personal, but I really don't need anyone but myself in my flat right now.' He waved his phone to support his argument.
'Fair enough,' Seb admitted. 'I'll guess I'll survive another two weeks at Helga's. But you take care of yourself, would you?' He was zipping up his jacket: conversation over.
'Of course,' John said, smiling for a variety of reasons, none of which, he suspected, Seb would like much. 'We'll stay in touch?'
'Sure,' Seb replied, grinning broadly. 'I'll see you later.'
ooOoo
John waited until Seb was long gone from sight before he headed for the park exit. To his totally absent surprise, a familiar figure with an umbrella was waiting for him next to a sleek black car.
ooOoo
Somewhere in the underbelly of London, in a nondescript café where no questions were asked and no answers were given, a man sat huddled in his oversized hoodie, smoking a cigarette and clutching a cup of black water misleadingly advertised as coffee. He had just taken another sip and made another disgusted face when his phone buzzed.
The message provoked no reaction whatsoever, but someone observing the man might notice that this was not so much because there was none, but because it was controlled and slammed down with an iron fist.
The text read:
I'm going to kill you. JW.
The man took another drag on his cigarette when the phone buzzed again. And again. And again.
Now the imaginary observer could make out some emotion leaking through the cracks in the man's posture. The hand around the coffee cup clenched. The other hand holding the phone trembled ever so slightly. Still, the man's face remained impassive.
No, I'm not. Come home. Please. JW.
On second thought, I might strangle you a bit. JW.
Come home anyway. JW.
The coffee had gone cold.
The man finished his cigarette, erased the texts, dropped his phone in the bin on the way out and went home.