Ending Grief
Chapter 3
AN: I'd just like to point out that I had no intention of disrespecting soldiers in the beginning of this chapter. These are just my thoughts on John's feelings.
The interviewing gave John a headache. He felt that as each new potential flatmate entered 221B, he sized them up to Sherlock– which obviously wouldn't get the job done. Nobody could be Sherlock, or even remotely close to what he was.
Mrs. Hudson told John to be a little more open-minded. "You don't need to fall in love with the person! They just have to live with you," she would laugh. John felt a lump in her throat at her choice of words.
But he decided that all in all, she was right. Getting a new flatmate was a necessity– not an option unless he wanted to move out for good. But that thought caused more pain inside John then perhaps anything else since the Fall. Leaving 221B would be like forgetting the most important part in his life. Living there was really the only time he was proud of what he was doing. When he was in war, pride was the last thing he felt, which was a bit ironic to him.
Typically, when you fight for your country, pride is something people expect you to feel. "Oh, you must be so proud of what you did over there!" people would say. But throughout his whole time in the Middle East– John Watson never met a man or woman who was proud to be there.
He was a doctor first; secondly, a soldier. And when you are in the business of saving lives, but are forced to mindlessly kill people in your defense, something changes in you. John knew that was what gave him (what his therapist called) Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It wasn't the killing– any man can do that when need be– it was the killing then saving; and the saving then killing; and the killing while saving. It can rot a man quickly John had realized. And if at any moment in his life he felt pride for doing those things, then he wasn't the man he thought he was.
John was in the checkout line at the grocery when Mrs. Hudson called him. He sighed as he rummaged around his jacket pockets for his phone.
"Hello?" he said.
"John! Remember that fellow who called the other day to come look at the flat?" Mrs. Hudson replied.
"Which one?" John sighed again.
"The only one you've talked to on the phone, dear,"
John quickly remembered. He typically let Mrs. Hudson talk to all the potentials, but once while she was out she gave him the phone duties. He had gotten a call two days before from a man who said he lived on the other side of London and was looking for somewhere cheaper to stay. He had a quiet, deep voice John remembered. John told him to come by the flat when he had a chance and they could talk in person.
"Yes, I remember," John said.
"Well, he's here now and desperately wants to meet with you!"
John told her he would arrive as quickly as he could. Once he checked out he caught a cab to Baker Street.
He walked in cautiously, not wanting to drop the paper sacks full of food he carried in his arms. He was juggling the bags plus his cane while trying to ignore the pain in his leg. John heard Mrs. Hudson laughing hysterically upstairs.
"Oh, John! Let me help you!" Mrs. Hudson cried as John limped up the last step.
"No, no! Absolutely not," John pushed her away politely as he headed toward the kitchen. He didn't dare look at the man on the couch. He allowed his mind to slightly wander away from reality as he hoped that maybe it was Sherlock in some stupid disguise, coming to surprise him and give Mrs. Hudson a heart attack. The idea made him smile and hurt at the same time.
Once he walked back into the living room, the man stood from his seat. He was tall and thin (very much like Sherlock), but he had light brown, almost reddish hair, and a trimmed beard running from ear to ear. He held a cigarette between his two first fingers, and John caught himself staring at it.
The man looked down at his hand embarrassedly. "Oh, sorry. Do you mind if I smoke?" he asked John. His voice was cool and collected.
"No, that's perfectly alright. I'm John Watson," John said and put out his hand.
"Sebastian Moran," the man smiled and took John's hand in his. Sebastian glanced at the cane in John's hand, but his eyes reverted back to John's eyes almost immediately.
While John was not a master at deduction, living with Sherlock did give him some insight into the science. As he shook Sebastian's hand, John knew immediately that he was a soldier. The handshake was firm, and his finger had a callus on it obviously formed by the trigger of a gun. Sherlock could have probably told him what type of gun Sebastian had shot. John wasn't that good yet.
"Where were you stationed?" John asked almost unintentionally.
Sebastian looked shocked for a moment, but a smile quickly spread over his face. "Afghanistan. Are you a solder as well?"
"Was one. Afghanistan also," John said.
Sebastian's smile grew wider. "Well, then. We already have something in common."
"Well, I think I'll go make some tea!" Mrs. Hudson said as she walked toward the kitchen.
The two men sat down across from each other while Mrs. Hudson gave them their tea. They talked about a variety of subjects: from the war to politics. John was amazed at how much they indeed had in common.
"You haven't even seen the flat yet," John pointed out as he realized how quickly the hour passed.
"Oh, quite right," Sebastian sipped at his tea.
"I'll show you around," John said.
They walked around the entire flat twice. John showed him the inside of every drawer and room– minus one. They laughed and conversed as they went, until finally they walked to the door.
"This is very nice," Sebastian said as he pulled down the hem of his jacket.
"Yes, I like to think so."
"But," Sebastian grinned, "you never showed me where I'd be staying."
John's stomach dropped in embarrassment. "Oh, god. You're right, I'm sorry, follow me."
They went back up the stairs and down the hall to the main bedroom in the flat. John hesitated by the door. He didn't want to open in it. He feared what was inside.
Sebastian looked down at John and chuckled slightly. He pushed the door open and stepped inside. A cold breeze blew out and hit John. He shook.
"And who lived here before?" Sebastian asked as he looked at the Periodic Table taped against the wall.
"Um," John hesitated. "His name was Sherlock."
He waited for Sebastian to recognize the name– to start asking questions. But he didn't. The other man only nodded.
"Interesting name. Victorian, is it?" he asked John.
"I really don't know."
"Well, anyhow," Sebastian said as he walked passed John and down the hallway. "I must be on my way. Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Hudson."
"My pleasure, dear!" was her reply from the kitchen.
John followed Sebastian down the stairs and to the door. "I'll call you soon…if you're still interested in the flat, that is," John said.
Sebastian smiled at him. "I am very interested, Mr. Watson. Call me anytime."
He put on a black fedora and walked out the door. John watched him through the peephole for a short time. He watched Sebastian wrap his dark blue scarf around his neck. Sebastian pulled out a cigarette and lit it before he continued down the street. John's eyes followed him until he was out of view. Perhaps he had found someone tolerable enough to live with, after all.