John's dream revolved around Sherlock that night. Whilst the rest of London slept peacefully, their minds filled with happenings that would only be forgotten at the start of the day, John's mind was restless, grieving and took form of a 6 foot tall man with curly hair with coattails that flew in the high winds high above on the roof of St. Bart's.
Only this time, he didn't actually see Sherlock. His mind constantly berated with nightmares of his (dead) best friend that, once he began to dream, he naturally assumed Sherlock would be in it. This time, not unlike many of his dreams, was not at St. Bart's. Mary's Café was the setting for this particular dream.
He walked, carefully avoiding the step; he opened the door to the café, pushing opening the door with one hand and the other grasping the doorframe. His eyes on the table in the back, the same one he had sat down at so many weeks ago. His dream-self was transported to their regular seats in the after time of a busy lunch rush. Mary was hovering next to the table; her hands grasped the coffee carafe as she spoke to the figure. She was blocking John's view of the figure but he knew, god did he know, who it was. A deep laugh mixed with Mary's, her hand reached for the arm on the table, giving it a small squeeze as the laughter stopped. His steps faltered as Mary moved out of the way, taking a step back and turning towards John, a smile on her face.
"John," she called out, "look who's here!"
"Sher-"
"Not. Quite."
John let out a shaky breath as he sprung up from bed, his hands supporting the weight of his shaking body just barely. He couldn't quite make out the man's face but he was sure of one thing, it was not Sherlock Holmes. The whole thing felt like a horror movie with the face of the killer obscured by some bad lighting. An inch to the side and the face would have been clear. But now the face was even more obscure than whilst dreaming.
He closed his eyes, laying back down, determined to have a good nights rest despite the blaring migraine that he could feel beginning behind his eyes. At first, his eyes couldn't rest, moving behind their lids rapidly, his mind replaying the earlier dream, analysing and coming up with nothing. Then, he counted sheep, trying, in vain, to push aside any and all thoughts. It took fourteen minutes to fall back asleep, approximately 14,000 sheep.
The next few hours were better off spent being awake, in retrospect.
He was in danger, every cell in his body told him that. Even if the danger was unseen, John felt eyes from inside the very taxi he was riding. One look at the taxi driver who didn't glance his way once, told him the danger was imaginary. Now, if only his body would relax.
The text he had received regarding Mrs Hudson had been a fake, probably one of Sherlock's Homeless having a good laugh under the command of a very bored consulting detective. No matter, Sherlock was going to get a piece of his mind as soon as John returned to Bart's. The manner in which Sherlock dismissively handled the news of the 'accident' made sense now, at least.
"Not a complete robot," John murmured to himself as he looked out the window. "Should probably apologise..."
"What you say?" the cabbie asked, watching John through the rear-view mirror. John shook his head, apologising, lacking an explanation for his talking to himself. The cabbie raised an eyebrow, his eyes darting to John every few seconds, probably thinking about what a nutter he was, before slowing down as they reached the Bart's parking lot.
John paid the man, not meeting his eyes, and got out. Immediately whipping out his phone, he checked for any messages when a call came in. Sherlock. The next few seconds, the words exchanged in those moments, were a blur. John felt his breathing accelerate, the grip on his phone turning bone crushing as he listened, begged. In the back of his mind, he knew the outcome even before Sherlock took a step off that roof and made his decent downwards. John knew...
"It's all a dream, you know?" A voice, Sherlock's, came in through his phone. John's hand, stiffly, raised the phone back to his ear and listened. "This – this place – is all in your dreams. You dream about me, constantly. I supposed I should feel special, honoured even but you also dream about bunnies and fishing regularly."
"Sherlock..."
"Yes. That's me, keep up, John, really." The voice stopped wherein John took the opportunity to let out the breath he had taken when Sherlock had raised his arms to the side and taken the plunge. "This will be the last time you dream of me. You have a bright future ahead of you - that is if you believe in things like fate and destiny, which you should not. Everything is re –"
John blinked as the words hit home.
"Why?" John managed to whisper.
"The clues are pilling up, John."
"What clues? What are you talking about, Sherlock?"
There was a long pause before a chuckle came from the other end of the line, the deep rumble of a laugh that could only belong to one person, the person who lay on the floor on the other side of the building in front of John.
"You see but you do not observe, John. That is your folly."
John didn't sleep the rest of the night, too scared to close his eyes and surrender to the darkness that was behind his eyelids. How long could he keep this up, he wondered before the rational part of his brain, the doctor side, reminded him that sleep was a necessity of life.
I do not require sleep.
He shook his head, shaking the voice right of his thoughts as fast as it appeared. Doctor Thompson might have been right but at some point he had to admit, listening to the voice in his head that strangely resembled his dead best friend, was bordering on insane. Why would the doctor tell him to listen to the voice? What could he possibly get from –
Closure. Resolution. Or she is simply –
There was no way that he would ever be able to explain the voice to Mary. He could barely explain the voice to himself let alone another human being. A human being that he was currently dating and already had a meltdown in front of a few times. John liked her, really liked Mary. Sure, the time had been short but… maybe the voice in his head was his past trying to drag him back, his old mentality trying to keep him in that sad, lonely life instead of the bright future he could see in front of him.
For now, 01:30 in the morning, John lay in bed and did nothing but breathe in and out.
When John arrived at work later that day, he arrived to yet another shitstorm. Patients, impatient and sniffling, were pressed in together like sardines in the relatively small confines of the waiting room, shoulder pressed up against each other and a look of discomfort on their red, snivelling faces.
He shook his head, so not prepared for the day that lay ahead of him. The remnants of his nightmare still lingered in his thoughts; the symbolism and mystery stranger were ... Well, a mystery.
He didn't know and, a small part of him, didn't want to know. Sherlock was in the past. He should move on, right? Nothing, no matter how many times he prayed and begged to the man's headstone would bring him back. That was reality. No matter how cruel.
But reality also brought a bright new hope. Mary Morstan. He had decided weeks ago that she was the one, or as close as he would get to the one. Those thought had not wavered even amidst all the emotional turmoil he had been through the last few days. Whilst Sherlock was his past, Mary was clearly his future. When one door opens...
Keep telling yourself that.
He shook his head once more, leaving the voice behind as he smile at the receptionist and made his way to his office.
It'd been a long time since he had had his name adorn a door. DOCTOR JOHN H. WATSON the plaque read not quite on the centre of the door, which bothered him more than it should. His office was neat, or as neat as it could be with twenty-some patients coming in and out of it everyday.
On the right was his desk; a simple desktop computer sat on it, the screen all ready lit with messages and reminders. Next to the desktop was a stack of files, the patients for the day. Only five - 30 minute appointments each. Which meant the rest of the day would be spent ... He should stock up on tissues. He took of his jacket, hanging it and then taking a deep breath before jumping into his big day. And what a day it was going to be.
Around noon, lunchtime, John closed the door behind a mother and her small infant child who had come for a routine check up. Four hours and the day was looking gloomier and gloomier. The child had cried for the entire check up, the mother interfering, like all first time mothers do, and thus the thirty-minute appointment turned into an hour appointment.
Now, the patient he had after Ms Haggerty was escorted in wearing a rather annoyed look. He, Hans Jaeger, made a beeline for a seat, sitting down with a heavy sigh. John blinked and sat down too, waiting for the man to speak. He had come in for; John took a sneak at the file behind him, no reason. Either the secretary didn't ask or he didn't provide the info upon registering. The former could be true, there were a lot of patients today, but the latter was probably more likely given the glare John was receiving at the moment.
"What can I do for you?" John asked after a moment. The man only grunted in response. John waited for a pause but the man said nothing. He retrieved the file behind him, flipping through the page and half it contained. "You've listed no former doctors or past medical history nor any medical conditions. Is there anything you need? I'm a doctor, I've heard and seen everything. Trust me."
"Hmm," was the only reply.
"Are you in any pain?"
The man shook his head.
"Any discomfort at all?"
Another shake.
"Are you sick? Injured?"
Another.
"What brings you here today, then, Mr Jaeger?"
A pause.
"Mr Jaeger?" John blinked, watching the man for any reaction and getting none. Finally, annoyance won and John said, "If are here to waste my time, I am going to ask you to leave. Now."
John watched as the man got up, straightened out his jacket and left. Having wasted his time, John took a deep breath before swivelling around in his chair and reaching for the intercom. His hand faltered just as his finger was about to touch the button. That had been odd. More than odd, actually, down right bizarre. But that was one got working at a clinic. He shrugged, pushing the intercom and announcing he was taking lunch.
The secretary did not reply for a long time, the sounds of the other room prominently coming through the speakerphone. John, annoyed and hungry, did not wait for a response longer than a minute, standing from behind his crowded desk with one push and grabbing his jacket from nearby. He put it on, checking the pockets for his wallet and keys - both present and accounted for. He took a quick glance at his phone, checking for messages from Mary and finding none.
He decided to give her a call; perhaps her voice will manage to soothe his tired mind. He dialled her number, ignoring the sound of ringing phone behind him, and exited his office. Through the lobby he goes, hand holding the dialling phone to his ear, passing right by the receptionist without a glance her way. She tried to call for him but he pointed to his phone, his eyes not on the woman as she points to a man in the waiting room, a file in her hand. He shrugged and called over his shoulder, "I'm on break."
He left without another word, pushing the doors with his bad shoulder and wincing when the pain began. He breathes in and out, his mind more on why Mary doesn't answer than the pain spreading down his arm.
"This is Mary. Leave me a message and I'll get back to ya when I can," her voicemail said brightly.
John waited for the beep, taking a deep breath trying vainly to find words to come out of his mouth. Words that would make sense and that would explain his actions the last time they spoke.
"Mary, it's John. Listen, I'm calling because I feel horrible about what happened the last time we saw each other. The date. The date I ran out on. Um. Right. I want to explain. It's got to do with ... Him. Okay. Yeah," he licked his lips, hand running anxiously through his short hair. "Um, Thanks. I mean bye. Bye."
He hung up, rolling his eyes at himself for sounding like a complete loon. He pushed that out of his head, hoping that his day would brighten after the not-so-good morning he was having. His head pounded, his eyes burnt whenever he closed his eyes, his lids turning them into tiny suns whenever he closed them for long periods of time. His shoulder, god his shoulder, ached. The only upside he could think as he walked to a nearby Tesco (maybe do a bit of mental shopping whilst he browsed) was that his leg no longer hurt. Now the pain erupted from the actual source of his injury.
Doesn't mean you haven't got –
"Shut. Up." John muttered through clenched teeth. "I'm not listening to you. Not even if you are in my head."
It took five minutes; walking briskly and mind clear, to get to the Tesco and inside the store. An employee welcomed him, asking him if he needed help. He did not, he replied with a thin smile, thanks and her interest was immediately drawn elsewhere. He walked through the aisles, not really looking at the items on the shelves.
John eventually found himself in front of the refrigerators, the light emanating from within them illuminate the milk pints. He stared at them, tracing the pints with his eyes without intending on buying anything. He stood there, feet a shoulder's length apart, shoulder's pulled back and hands at his back. He breathed in and out, concentrating on breathing and not Sherlock's voice in his head.
Milk and Sherlock, not a connection he connection he would ever thought was possible. He stood there until his phone vibrated in his front pants pocket, his hand automatically reaching for it before his mind registered the vibration. Once the phone was in his hand, vibrating, he blinked and stepped back from the milk. He blinked again, looking down at his phone and seeing the words "MARY MORSTAN" on the screen in bold letters.
"Hullo?"
"John? I got your message."
"Right. Um. Yes, do you want to have dinner?"
"So you can run out again? I think not."
"I –"
"John, I don't need to know everything that goes on in that thick head of yours but ... Sherlock is in the forefront of your mind, I get that, I do. But this is ... Am I important to you?"
"Yes, of course you are."
"But I'll never be as important as him, will I?"
"I –" John licked his lips. "No."
"And I would never expect the opposite. Can you see that I am willing to not be the most important, the most vital and your constant thought in your life? I don't care, but I care about you. A lot. Very much, actually."
She stopped, waiting for a response from him. John was too stunned, too shocked to do anything but blink and get a firm grip on his phone, knuckles turning white with force.
"Amazing..." he murmured. "You are. Amazing."
"Dinner?"
"My place, 1900?"
"I will be there."
They hung up and for the first time today, John felt a smile pull at his lips.
