John Hamish Watson was at a coffee house with a pretty girl.
The pretty girl inquestion was named Alcie Versaines, and she was a reporter with big, brown, mascaraed eyes and long curly red hair. She had, at first, been sent to interview him about Sherlock's unpleasant end, but they actually got along quite nicely.
This was their fifth date.
On their first date together, John had been tense, subconciously waiting for Sherlock to burst through the Chinese restaurant door and ruin every chance he had. But Sherlock didn't. Because Sherlock was...
He had been tense on his second date, also; tapping nervously, glancing at the door.
It was their third date that he realized that no one was coming.
And somehow, that bothered him most of all. But he continued on, enjoying himself to the best of his abilities.
And they had a fourth date, and a fifth. Alcie was a very charming woman, who traveled and studied. She was smart and witty, and made him genuinely laugh for the first time in months. They were planning to go to Egypt together in the summer, and John, surprisingly, couldn't wait. He really, truly liked this girl.
But he was there, always in the back of his mind, whispering comparisons between this girl and him.
Sherlock.
John knew, all along, that he would have to face the guilt sometime. The guilt of replacing him. It wasn't as though he and Sherlock actually had anything other than a platonic relationship, but he couldn't deny that there had been something special between them. They had saved each other; He had saved Sherlock from being alone and becoming a possible murderer, and Sherlock had saved him from himself. Because Sherlock knew, all along, that John would destroy himself in the end. And he would've. Deep in his bones, he knew. He would be his own destruction- if someone didn't save him first.
John swallowed a quick gulp of his coffee and realized that Alcie was standing, pulling her coat off the back of her chair and laughing at something she had said. Or something someone else had said- he couldn't really remember at the moment. All he could see, suddenly, as though someone had hit a spotlight, was Alcie. The way the light reflected off her hair, her face, her eyes...
Damn it all, he loved her.
He grinned, putting down the exact change for the meal and escorting Alcie to the door, where they parted ways with a fond, farewell hug.
It was snowing. It was December now, only...what? Three, four months since 'the incident', as he had taken to calling it. John leaned a little more on his cane and slipped his hat, his favorite hat that Sherlock had thrown his way one day to hide him from paparazzi, over his ears and set off with the crowd, his limp being more noticeable and painful than ever.
Someone bumped into him. It set him off balance, made him topple into a snowbank. A dark, shadowy, tall figure stood over him.
It looked vaguely familiar.
"Sorry about that," The stranger murmured, extending a hand to him. Except it wasn't a stranger at all- the voice, the coat, the scarf. Even the hat that was pulled down so low his hair was hidden. It was all so familiar, so comfortingly ordinary, that John was completely taken by utter surprise.
John numbly took the hand and allowed the person to pull him up, grabbing his cane with his opposite hand. As soon as he was on his feet, he did the one thing that he knew would ensure that it was him.
John Hamish Watson looked directly into the strangers eyes.
And they were painstakingly familiar. The exact same.
"Sherlock?" He whispered, slowly poking the taller man in the shoulder. He didn't want this to be fake. He couldn't afford it.
The man tipped his hat up, showing his grave, drawn face. "I'm so sorry," Sherlock Holmes said quietly.
Suddenly, the two men were in an alleyway, safe from prying eyes, and John had to gasp for air suddenly, because Sherlock was holding a rag over his mouth that smelled like...like...
John bolted up in bed, gasping. His lungs seemed to be screaming for oxygen, and he couldn't get enough of it.
It was dark out. He was in his pajamas. He was in bed.
He had been dreaming.
John groaned, letting himself flop back onto his pillow. A dream. That was all it had been. A stupid dream.
He was so stupid to think Sherlock would come back. It had taken him a month to stop believing that Sherlock was alive. Sherlock was dead.
It still struck a bit of pain inside to think the words, but he knew they were true. Sherlock Holmes was dead.
Furious with himself for dreaming of his lost friend, John turned on his side, pulled the blanket up to his chin, and closed his eyes.
Then he opened them again.
He opened them again because, in front of his face, in the corner next to his bedroom door, was a chair. And on that chair, was a rumpled pile of clothes.
The same clothes he had been wearing in his dream...
Jumping up faster than he had in a while, John rushed over to the pile of laundry. It was all there. Every last bit. He could still remember having to wipe off mustard from his cardigan- the stain was still there, on the neck.
But that had been in the dream.
The dream had been real.
But that meant...
Suddenly, John noticed a piece of paper lying on the ground. It had been knocked off the top of the pile when he had dug through them. He picked it up hesitantly, with shaking fingers.
There were two letters on the ripped paper. Just two.
S.H.
Sherlock grinned as he watched his old friend's eyes widen. He steepled his fingers, leaning back in his chair.
"Don't worry, John," He murmured, watching the shock turn to joy on his blogger's face. "I know you'll find me."
I don't own Sherlock Holmes or John Watson. I do, however, own Alcie Versaines. She is my character.
