John awoke to repeated loud banging on the door.
His felt his heart racing in overdrive, even while he struggled to regain consciousness. He was back in Afghanistan, someone requiring urgent medical attention. Then he realised that it was Sherlock waking him up because he needed backup on some idiotic errand. Finally, when he opened his eyes and saw where he was, he knew it must be Mary.
He couldn't face Mary.
He tried to sit up, but it hurt to move. On gaining an upright position his head throbbed with pain and his stomach lurched. He had pins and needles in one arm where he'd been lying on it, and he was still fully dressed in yesterday's clothes.
The barrage of sound continued, and in the end he struggled to his feet and opened the door a crack, just to stop the noise from reverberating through his head.
Inspector Lestrade stood in the doorway. Even with his hangover John could see that Lestrade appeared pale and drawn. He had dark circles under his eyes and he smelt strongly of cigarettes.
John hadn't seen much of Lestrade since the funeral. The last time they'd really spoken was at Baker Street when he'd taken Sherlock away in handcuffs and then threatened to do the same to John. Not that that had really worked out for Lestrade.
"You look bloody awful", Lestrade informed him.
"Thanks… do you want to ...come in?"
Lestrade slowly walked past John into the bedsit, taking everything in. It did, truth be told, look a complete mess. The chairs were still sideways on the floor, the table also, with one leg no longer at right angles. The empty JD bottles were evident next to the sofa. Having lived with Sherlock, John was fairly accustomed to things no longer having their military neatness and cleanliness, but it wasn't until now that John realised how much he had let things in the flat slide. It was disgusting, there was no two ways about it.
Lestrade went over to the kitchen area and began to search for mugs and coffee amongst the take-away debris and unwashed plates. It wasn't difficult, the kitchen being so sparsely equipped. He filled the kettle at the sink.
"You didn't turn up for work. People were worried."
John had flopped painfully back down on the sofa. His head hurt and he wanted to make as little movement as possible.
"I was having a sick day."
"Yeah, I can see that", Lestrade answered, looking at the state of him, and the empty bottles.
"How have you been?" Lestrade continued.
John just shrugged. He'd thought he was improving, but apparently he was still in freefall.
Lestrade poured the water into the mugs and then looked in the fridge for milk, grimacing at the date on the carton. Finally he handed John a black coffee. John had to sit up in order to hold it, and his head swam as he did so.
"I don't want to talk about… him", John said quickly.
Lestrade's eyes looked weary; a man who had seen far too much.
"Neither do I", he growled softly.
There was a long pause while John took a grateful sip of the coffee and wondered what kind of painkillers he had lying around.
"How's work?" John finally asked, just to fill the silence.
"Difficult", Lestrade replied with feeling.
John didn't doubt it. The fall-out for Lestrade, at work, after Sherlock's arrest and disgrace must have been hell. Lestrade was probably lucky to still have a job. And goodness knows how he was coping with solving cases alone now.
The two sat in silence. It was like looking in a mirror; John desperately wishing he could think of something to say to Lestrade to indicate his solidarity, his forgiveness, his friendship and empathy; but somehow he couldn't think of a single thing.
Apparently without Sherlock there was nothing really to talk about.
Lestrade finished his coffee in silence, looking out of the window, and then stood up to see himself out.
"Greg", John called after him.
Lestrade turned around, his hand on the door.
"Thanks for coming over".
He meant it. Freefall was frightening.
…
It was a full two days before John had a chance to speak to Mary at work again, after their late night road-trip. Although that wasn't strictly true, as John knew he was doing his best to avoid her.
At the end of the second day John was finishing typing up some notes at his desk when Mary came in to make an inventory of the medical supplies. The door swung closed behind her leaving the two of them alone, with the silence stagnating between them.
Mary rummaged through the boxes and syringes, without a word, while John tried to think about what he was meant to be typing. He sighed, frustrated as the thoughts would not come, completely distracted by her presence, aware of the scent of her perfume.
"We need to talk..." Mary said. He looked up, and she was no longer counting medicines, but watching him "...about what happened", Mary continued.
John studied her face before replying slowly, "OK. You… kissed me. Why?"
Mary shrugged, bewildered at the question. "It was a kiss. How many reasons could there be? Anyway, you need to rephrase that. I didn't kiss you. We kissed each other."
"What do you want", John replied impatiently, "What do you see happening? There are only two ways this can go. Either it doesn't work out, and someone gets hurt..." John knew that any more hurt would actually kill him. "...or it does work out and…"
John wasn't sure how to finish his argument.
"...it feels like he didn't matter", Mary said, almost whispering.
John observed Mary with cold fury. How dare she? How dare she even begin to try to guess what he was thinking. He spoke angrily now.
"Mary, it was a mistake. A stupid mistake. I was lonely. You're… well you're gorgeous. But I was messing you around. This can't happen. I'm not… I'm just not ready… I might not ever be ready. I'm sorry. Sorry."
Mary put her clipboard down and walked over to where John was sitting. She picked up his hand and held it between the two of hers. He wanted to pull it away, but something made him stop.
"John Watson", Mary began gently, "You are the most extraordinary man I have ever met. As well as being very good at diagnosing foot ailments, and rugby-tackling patients, you are also extremely kind, selfless, evidently very loyal and actually very handsome. I've spoken to the staff here and no-one's got a bad word to say about you. Everyone was desperate to have you back at work. Maybe handing out prescriptions isn't enough for you long-term, but I have no doubt at all that you will find yourself again.
"You haven't just lost your best friend; you've been alienated from your friends, your home, and the only occupation you really loved. You seem to think that you're falling apart, but when I look at you I don't see someone who is falling apart. I see someone who is incredibly strong, and who is coping extremely well in the face of immense difficulty.
"If you're not ready for a relationship, then that's fine, of course that's fine. But just so you know, I'm here if you need me, and I'm more than willing to wait for as long as it takes."
John watched her, overwhelmed and wavering. He had no idea what to say. Finally his voice came out in a whisper, "Mary please… please, just leave me alone." He pulled his hand away bitterly.
He was sorry the minute she'd left the room, because he suddenly realised that what she'd done was amazing.
It felt to him as if she had deduced every thought in his mind.
...
After work John made a call to his therapist and then went for a long walk. The thick fog that had covered London that morning had burned through, leaving the sun warm enough that John didn't need his coat.
The first place John walked to was Baker Street. He stood outside the shiny black door and hovered, like an uncertain client. It had been much easier to pretend that his former home did not exist, but today he needed to see; to check that it was still here, and unsurprisingly it was. The sight evoked so much sadness and emptiness and longing, and a kind of outrage that it was all just so unfair; the feelings confused and jammed so tightly in his head that there was no room for tears. John deliberated about whether to go in and see Mrs Hudson, but he couldn't do it, and walked away, his face distorted with emotion.
The second place John walked to was the cemetery, where Sherlock's gravestone stood dark against the green verdant grass and delicate pink-flowering weeds. He stood there for a long time, in the cool and quiet, with the smell of cut grass and pine, the birdsong and the faraway hum of traffic. It felt as if time itself was holding its breath, and finally the tears came, warm and welcome.
...
BEEP
Hello John, it's Mrs Hudson here again. I hope you're well. It's been a long time since I saw you. Your work phoned me the other day. They said you hadn't gone in. I do hope you're alright. I just wanted to say that I'm still no further with the mouse problem. I thought the best thing to do would be to get a cat, but the cat wasn't interested in the mice. She just sat washing while the mice ran past her feet. But when she saw Mrs Turner's dogs it was a different matter; she was after those dogs like a shot. Mrs Turner's furious with me now, because the blessed dogs never stop barking and...
John pressed the stop button on the answer machine. He couldn't deal with Mrs Hudson today.
...
John's blog 5 June
He lied to me.
When he was on that roof-top he had one last chance to say anything he wanted, and he told me he was a fraud. Why would he say that? What was he trying to do? I wish I could understand.
Most people weren't aware of how human he really was. Certainly he didn't always operate like other people, and the fact that I existed for anything other than to help him with cases sometimes didn't seem to occur to him. So the question of how he would feel about what I did in his absence... well, it's kind of a non-question.
But when he was on that roof-top, he wasn't thinking about himself. I think he was trying to cut me loose; to release me; to allow me to carry on without him. Did he really think that would work? As if that one phone call could undo all those years of friendship.
I wish he was here so I could make him understand that I never, for a moment, doubted him. Never. I could never stop believing in him. I could never stop believing in Sherlock Holmes.