November 2012
London, England
"So you're really going?" Greg Lestrade bellowed and raised his pint, "You're a great man, John."
The doctor laughed and shook his head, "No thanks, you once said that about – someone else, and I don't think I'm quite a match."
"Don't be daft," the Chief Inspector retorted, "You were the perfect match! Besides, I said he might be a good man."
"He was. To me, he was."
"Yeah, I guess you're right. Shame really no one ever had the chance to tell him that."
"Can we please not talk about Sherlock tonight?"
Greg nodded and put on an artificial smile, inquiring into John's job with Doctors without Borders. The ex-army doctor was packed and ready. His flight was scheduled the following day. Mrs Hudson had promised to only rent out to mad middle-aged bachelors with trust issues and self-endangering occupations. He doubted that she'd find someone soon. She had asked John's opinion about what the new tenant should be like, so he had told her to look for the hyperactive kind in a mysterious coat. Preferably dark-haired. No, she'd definitely not find someone soon.
"I'll be stationed with a group in Sokoto, in the north-west of Nigeria. We'll be treating epidemics, meningitis, malaria, AIDS. I'll be part of a mobile emergency unit. But I'll also be working at hospitals. Depends on who needs me," John related.
"You'll be facing a hell of a lot of work."
Yeah. Which was why John was going. The months after Sherlock's "fall" had been boring. He had avoided the living-room, had used his own room only to sleep in, and had spent long over-hours at the hospital. Mrs Hudson had worried. Even Mycroft had seemed concerned when he told him about his inheritance. Sherlock had left him a considerable sum of money. Funny that the lonely aging doctor should be the world's only consulting detective's sole beneficiary. Of course, there had been rumours then again. Ignited by Mycroft Holmes who had smirked that before there had been Dr. John Watson in his brother's life, the latter would have thought his money of being of no use to anything or anybody. Obviously, he had thought John would make a wiser use of it.
And then the idea had sprung to his mind. At first, it had not been much more than that, a vague idea of do-good'ing in one of the world's most desolate places. After all, he was a doctor. So he had applied with Médicins Sand Frontières and within a couple of weeks, he had a destination. He was looking forward to it. And maybe he could forget.
April 2013
Lhasa, Tibet
"My name is Julian Barnes. Joo-Lee-Ann," the young man said patiently and twenty-five pairs of eyes watched and listened in awe, "I'm from London. A big city in England. A big. City," he spread his arms and moved them as if he were holding a globe.
"England. Do you know England?" The children watched but said nothing.
"It's a cold and rainy place. Cold," he wrapped his arms around himself and pretended to be shivering, "and rainy," he wriggled his fingers above his head to portray a shower. This made the children laugh and Julian smiled, too.
He would later say it had been his girlfriend's idea to go to Tibet and teach, but it had, in fact, been entirely his own. He did not know anything of Tibet, let alone speak the language. But he had wanted a challenge. And a challenge he had got.
Nobody knew him, so he could spend his time reading and walking, or teaching and at the same time learning from the children.
They called him the "Funny Man" because of his shaggy hair and beard. He personally liked his goatee, but it made him look rather young, especially when he was wearing his woollen hat and sweater. The clothes were much too big on the slender body, but they were colourful and happy. He did his best adapting and learning the language, but he still got things wrong quite often.