TW: This chapter has mentions of attempted suicide.
Invalided.
The word sat heavy in John's mind. He had been invalided from the army. They had given him a small pension, a tiny bedsit in London, and a few medals.
Days stretched before him, each more dull than the last. They were like a never ending parade of black and white. Nothing interested him anymore.
Nothing but the hallucination he had had while he had been dying.
Of course, it was obvious now that the whole thing had been in his imagination. The tall pale figure clad in a dark coat would have stood out in the Afghani desert. No, his mind had merely played tricks on him as he lay dying.
John tried to ignore his disappointment.
Of course, the monotony grew tiresome, and John wanted it to end. He just wanted to stop, to sleep forever, to not think anymore. So he planned and prepared, scheduling the day his life would end.
Poison, he decided finally, would be the way to go. Less mess for others to clean up. Really, it was the most considerate option.
The day arrived, and John felt more alive than he ever had. He went about his daily routines, an extra skip in his step. The day passed quickly, and he soon found himself in his bedsit, a glass filled with clear liquid in one hand.
"What in the hell do you think you are doing?" A deep voice said behind him, and John jumped, his glass falling to the floor and shattering. He whipped around, staring in disbelief at the sight in front of him.
The pale man he had met in the desert was glowering at him, anger in those blue eyes.
"I…who are you?" John blurted out, blinking at the form in front of him. Righteous anger poured from him, and John couldn't contain a shiver.
"It doesn't matter right now." The man said stalking forward and invading John's personal space. "What matters is how foolishly you're acting. You were going to attempt to take your own life."
"You were in the desert with me." John said, completely ignoring the man's angry accusation. "You saved my life."
"Please, John, try to stay on topic."
"I am." John huffed, crossing his arms. "You were there when I was bleeding to death in the desert, and here you are now, when I'm about to die."
"You aren't about to die." The man rolled his eyes.
"You're my guardian angel, aren't you?" John asked excitedly.
The man scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Nothing so pedantic, John. Really, you couldn't have insulted me more."
"A cherub, then?" John teased, earning a sour look from the other man.
"I was wrong. You could have insulted me more." He sniffed, mirroring John's posture.
"So, are you saying that you aren't put on this earth to save me?" John questioned.
"Not in the slightest." The man replied.
"Then why have you?"
The room was silent for a short moment as the man with the dark hair surveyed John, a confused expression clear on his face.
"Pardon?"
"Why have you saved my life?" John asked. "This is twice, now."
The man shook his head, a small, quick jerk that caused his curls to bounce. "You are important, John Watson. More than anyone realises."
"You're the angel of death, aren't you?" John said softly, and the man's eyes widen, a small, surprised smile on his face.
"Of a fashion." He said. "I am called Sherlock. I hope I won't see you again."
Sherlock vanished before John could so much as blink, and disappointment settled heavy in his gut. He spent the better part of an hour cleaning up the broken glass that lay at his feet, making sure not to leave even a sliver.
"I think you'll be seeing me quicker than you think, Sherlock." John hummed to himself, practically buzzing to see Sherlock again. "And I can't wait."