Author's Notes: This story is an idea much like the episode "Turn Left" of Doctor Who. I kept thinking … what if John didn't run into Mike Stamford? He would have never been introduced to Sherlock, so how would their lives play out? Here they keep crossing paths… their lives are entwined, and so will end up together one way or another. I have written sections separated each focusing on John and Sherlock's lives, until sections of them meeting.

The events of the season still occur, but I've written how it was different without John and Sherlock solving the cases together.

Episode One

Beneath a typically grey English day, a man with short dirty blonde hair and a stiff posture stood on the street, looking at the park across. He'd just came from a meeting with the government military pension agency, and had nothing else left to do for the day. Strike that, nothing else to do for the week. He could take a stroll through the park to the tube station closest to his depressingly plain flat, or he could just call a taxi now. He looked down at his leg, knowing that without the limp he'd not take a second thought to the pleasant nature walk … so maybe he should? Sighing, he called for a taxi, saying to himself softly "John Watson… how much difference could a walk in the park make, really."

Across town, a tall, pale man with dark curls and icy blue eyes grumbled into his phone at his obnoxious brother: "No, Mycroft."
"Come on Sherlock, no one can stand being around you for more than five minutes. Do you really think someone would want to cohabitate with you?"

"It's statistically unlikely but not impossible."

"Face it Sherlock, no one likes you. Can you blame them? You irritate everyone beyond belief. Just accept my offer."

"I'm not reporting to you."

"Nothing detailed, just updates about your activities at least once a week, including any cases you're working on. It's not much to ask in return for half of your rent."

Sherlock scowled at the phone, despite knowing that his brother had a point.
"I'll take that as your agreement." Sherlock heard escaping the phone.

"Fine. But the deal's off as soon as I find a flatmate!" Sherlock snapped and hung up. He hated his brother interfering, but he did so love the apartment he'd found at 221B Baker Street. The landlady was an old friend of sorts, and was already giving him a good offer for the flat, and so he felt like it was pertinent to accept the offer.

He moved his things in, scattered his experiments and possessions around the pre-existing furniture. There was a lounge chair in the living room already, an old used red one, but he preferred his black leather one. He did spend a large amount of time sitting in it, pondering, and so had insisted on getting a chair up to the task. Still, he left the old one where it was. He looked at it, hoping that maybe one day soon he'd have someone to sit in it. He really didn't like having to report to his brother. No doubt Mycroft had already installed surveillance equipment, and so would get most of the information he already needed, and so it was evident that making Sherlock report to him was only for Mycroft's amusement in controlling his little brother.

John stared at his blog, the stupid activity his psychologist insisted he continue. The words 'failed to walk through a park' glared up at him. He couldn't help but feel such a failure. It was one of the few things he felt anymore. Just a resounding sorrow, and a deep self-hatred for what he'd become. A useless, struggling, ordinary man with nothing in his life. John rubbed his face with his hand. He couldn't help but feel that he should have died when he was shot. At least then he wouldn't have to deal with all this. The nightmares every night, the dull emptiness that was the day. He just wished it would all go away… but he knew there was only one way to achieve that. And he couldn't do that. He told himself that more and more as of late: he couldn't commit suicide. He told himself he was stronger than that. But all that served to do was put more pressure on himself to be better than he was. And that made him feel worse for knowing he wasn't who he thought he should be.

John stood and stared out the window. The weather was bleak, but dry. He could go for a walk. Instead, he hung his head. He couldn't face that. He sighed. His life was just nothing now. The only things that happened to him were in his nightmares now. He used to be someone, he used to do things that were important. How he wished he could still have that excitement in his life, that he could use his skills to make a difference again. John smiled softly to himself, a sad wistful smile. There was no way to have that life anymore.

Sherlock sat in his flat, which seemed far too empty despite the clutter. Suddenly a greying man was at the door, DI Greg Lestrade, looking determined.
"Sherlock…"

"Another? What's different about this one?"
"You know how they never leave a note? Well this one did."

Sherlock nodded in Greg's direction, standing. The serial suicides case was starting to make progress.

"Who's on forensics?" Sherlock posed, grabbing his coat.

"Anderson." Greg replied.

"Grr, Anderson won't work with me. I need an assistant."

"Well when you find someone who can tolerate being around you without punching you, you let me know. Until then, you're stuck with Anderson."

Sherlock winced while he put his scarf on. He really did have no choice in the matter. He wanted to work this case, it was the first exciting thing that had happened in months.

After mere minutes Sherlock had deduced the note left, scratched into the floorboards, as 'Rachel'; as well as the victim being a serial adulterer from Cardiff in town for a night and her suitcase as missing. On a high, Sherlock darted from the building to search for the missing case. He found it infuriating how slow Lestrade and his team were: of course the suitcase was pink, and understandably had to be disposed of where it wouldn't be found.

It had only taken the better part of an hour to find the case. Sherlock studied all the items in detail, however noted that the mobile phone was absent. Lestrade had shown him everything they'd found with the body (nothing), and so he assumed the phone was still with the murderer. He typed and sent a carefully worded message to the woman's phone number, prompting an immediate return call. Sherlock gleefully smiled at the phone as he sat in his chair, fingers entwined underneath his chin. The game was on.

John let his fingers glide smoothly over the cold metal of his gun. His eyes were closed as he imagined using the weapon. But his gut wrenched at the thought. He couldn't. Thoughts of those who found him, the trauma they'd suffer, flashed through his mind. But there was a very dark, very comforting thought that followed: he wouldn't be around to care. His mind swirled around, listing things he would miss (not an awful lot, honestly), and regrets he had. That blasted park blared in his mind. He wasn't sure why, but it stood out as something important that he'd screwed up. His therapist wouldn't understand. She didn't understand anything. All of this relaxation, calm, and quiet seemed to be just driving him more and more insane, not fixing anything. He had the feeling that maybe he should tell her about his suicidal feelings, but knew that she wouldn't take that the right way. Whether she overreacted and committed him or underreacted and told him to get some rest John knew he'd feel just worse for having said anything. So no, he kept everything to himself. There was also a darker motive that gnawed in the back of his mind: telling people would only make it harder to do.

John stood and cleaned up what little there was to clean. He then took his keys, phone, and wallet, and left. He'd decided that he was going back to the park, and taking the bloody walk. One less thing to cross off his list of regrets. At least once it was done, he might have some peace with his decision. Clear his conscious from eating away at him.