A man is many things; let's count them all tonight.
You're letting go of strings, replacing them with light.

Would you finally see that all your lives are moments?
All your words and closeness keep you here and human,
Whispering tonight.

—from "Scream, Scream, Scream" by Ludo

...

Seventeen years. All right: sixteen years, nine months, twelve days; now's hardly the time to start sacrificing accuracy for drama. That, John, my friend, is the exact amount of time that you have spent filling in for the real John.

John Watson.

And I regret to inform you that I may be consulting you less in times to come.

Because John Watson is here.

You saw when he came to look at the flat (the flat, which will be our flat, John Watson's and mine; it practically already is). He even noticed you, pointing at you with that damned cane of his. Didn't have one of those before, did he? Don't worry; I'm taking care of it. I expect he won't be using it tomorrow. He won't be able to find it in a week, not that he'll be looking. His expression, when he realized he'd just spent the past twenty-odd minutes dashing about London, scaling stairs, jumping across buildings without it—no, he won't be looking for that cane again.

When John noticed you, I'm sure you heard me introduce you as "a friend." That's not a lie, obviously; you have been—are—exactly that. But, naturally, I can't have told him your name. (Well, I could've done; plenty of people named John in the world, but really not plenty of skulls.) It'd have to have gone something like, "This, John, is my friend, John, a skull who I named after a time-traveling fellow I first met when I was about six." John is free to think (and know) that I am eccentric, but I'd prefer he not think that I actually belong in an asylum.

But, I suppose, I can let him know later—presumably sometime after 2012, which was the copyright date on that notebook of his, the one he had me draw a map in the first time. Of course he wasn't lost, was he? You've heard me say it a thousand times: every ounce of my gut told me, despite all logic, that he knew me. It was his casual acceptance of my particular behaviors that seemed (seem) to disturb everyone else; it was merely the look on his face whenever he turned it toward me, an old-friends sort of openness that I have never experienced besides then but have, nonetheless, witnessed in others. When he threatened those sixth-form morons, the familiarity in his voice was audible, not to mention that he was clearly doing it for me, rather than—whoever else. That was the first thing I told you about him, wasn't it? The timbre of his voice and the tautness of his posture as he told them off—frightening and amazing. Straight off we agreed that I'd forgive you for not being able to replicate those things, since you are so quiet and so good at listening. Just like John—just like the real John. He likes my deductions even more than you do.

And of course no matter the extent to which he insisted on not knowing me, to which he pretended not to know me, he certainly knew me when we sat back to back in that atrocious Chinese restaurant. What was that, two years ago? He wouldn't so much as look at me, after the first time he noticed me—but he knew. Obvious. You, I'm sure, are bored by now of hearing the hundred things I'd wished I'd said, after that; of hearing how much self-restraint it took not to turn around and grasp him by the shoulders and say, "I know, John, I know." But perhaps my state at the time helped. Of all the ways for John to see me, in the middle of cold-turkey withdrawal would not have been my first choice.

He knew anyway, of course. He's a doctor. And he knew me.

He didn't know me yesterday. I hardly knew him—he came in so subtly, so unexpectedly, not like the times before. He was just present, a piece of the world like any other person. Just…a man.

I say just a man. That's what he was, at that moment, for that day. But of course I couldn't stay around, lest inadvisable things spew forth from my mouth (as they often do, but this time the consequences would be much direr than, say, pissing off Lestrade again). I needed time to think, time to think about John Watson. John: a man, just a man. Here. A man. Only a few years older than me—not that that's what I was thinking at the time. I was still working past details I'd gathered about him: Afghanistan, psychosomatic limp (interesting), therapist, alone. (Alone: like me.)

I could finally look at his face, for the first time since I was six years old, and gather up some of those lost details, fill them in past coat and mobile (not that I knew that's what it was at the time; but you watched them come into existence with me, you remember me getting my first one, turning it over in my hand, knowing it was the same strange device as the one from John's pocket), past notebook and his gentle not good.

He was (is, is) here, with wrinkles and trousers just as specific and detailed as anyone else's, with a nose different from everyone else's. I can point out all the parts of you that indicate that you are clearly not a suitable replacement for the real John. (But you were the best I could do, and now, as you filled in for John, John is here to fill in for you, and I regret to tell you that he's doing superbly.) If I poured him a cup of tea, he'd take it from my hand. He's got textures and colors and a pulse. He blinks. He's here, present-tense here, not vanished after even an hour, two, twelve. He's here in the present, just a man—and now I am a man, too, aren't I?

For an ordinary man who has not yet time-traveled, he is still an enigma. I do wonder, if I hadn't met him before, if I would have invited him to share a flat with me anyway. Perhaps I would have.

I took him out to eat at a restaurant twice today. It was a bit of an experiment, to test his reaction; further, I had to prove to him, as memorably as possible, that he needs me. I cured his limp; his face lit up. What further proof could he possibly need, that I am the best possible flatmate for him? He's going to love it. He'll hate me, everyone does, but he obviously went back to find me, so he'll also not hate me, and that will be the lovely part.

When I took him to Angelo's, however, he flirted with me. I think he did. He said he didn't, though not in those words, but all my observations about flirting indicate that that was what he was doing.

Sorting out my reaction was…problematic. I was still realizing things like that he has a closet with clothes, people who are related to him; that he's had jobs, and went to school, and didn't actually just manifest out of nowhere to visit me. I was still realizing that he's a human. A human like any other human (relatively speaking). I'm still working on it, in fact.

So while he was trying to flirt with me, I was still attempting to process other information (other, frightfully obvious information), such as he likes lasagna, he eats lasagna, he uses a fork, which I suppose, were things that had never occurred to me before. Certainly you never facilitated the process. You never ate lasagna.

I was still processing that we had had entire conversations that day, that he hadn't disappeared yet, that he called me amazing.

Naturally I wouldn't have expected it. Obviously. How do you think you (not you, of course, you're a skull) would react to a childhood imaginary friend asking what sort of people you fancy, licking his lips in sort of a way, sort of an, 'Is it me? Am I your type?' sort of way. How am I to know? He only just now became human. I spent seventeen years of my life talking to a bloody skull to replace him.

Well. So. It's a situation I couldn't have been prepared for. Not that I ought to have been preparing, or not that I ought to have anticipated—I'm living with him, as if that wasn't enough!

So, of course, with little else to—I mean, of course it was perfectly natural for me to have simply—I think perhaps it could have gone better. I opted for my usual approach and I told him the truth, which is that I'm married to my work. I am. It's the only thing I have. Or it was, anyway, before he turned up as my flatmate, which is ridiculous, and then flirted with me, which was more ridiculous, if it was flirting, which, again, all empirical evidence points to yes but perhaps further data needs to be—

I told him that I was married to my work, which might have been, in retrospect, not an ideal response, but it's not as if I could have planned for him showing up and it's definitely not as if I could have planned for him becoming part of the Work at all. But he came to a crime scene, because he's a doctor, and when I asked him if he was any good, he said, "Very good," like his throat was stopped up with something that up until then he had been very diligently hiding from me. (Which he had, and that thing was that John seems to be extraordinary even without the time-travel.)

I think he will become part of the Work. I think he wants to. I could never have imagined him being so useful. I impressed him; he wants to impress me. He already has.

Exhibit A: he shot someone for me.

In the second I realized it was him who did it—that perfect shot, and perfectly timed, from one building to another—he was temporarily not human again. Afterward, he looked at me, playing along, oh, innocent John Watson who just appeared at the crime scene, and right there on front of Lestrade, who most definitely saw my realization as it happened. My realization was this: It was not that he was (is) extraordinary or human. It's that he's both. The opposite of me: because people will always look at him and think of him as ordinary first, and it's only when something incomprehensibly big and unknown and fierce explodes out of him that he becomes extraordinary enough for the average eye to see; when people see me they know I am extraordinary, and if I try particularly hard, I can seem ordinary—human-like, as the typical behaviors and appearances of humans go. Of course, seeming human-like is a weakness for me, whereas it is a strength for him. But, of course, John has already seen what I was like, when I was…well. When I was younger. I suppose he met me and he knew me and he was my flatmate and he wasn't so displeased that he didn't go back and see more. Most people seem to be uncomfortable with the notion that I occasionally do not seem completely alien; am prone to the rare fit of appearing disastrously in line with the ordinary (which, granted, I am usually successful at hiding, so they needn't worry).

When I was in uni, and sharing a flat with Seb—there was a moment, earlier on in the time I spent with him, when I was getting out of the shower and he strolled in and saw me nude. He laughed, as if it were a revelation to him that I have an arse. In retrospect, it wasn't mockery—but what was I to have done? I shoved him out. Maybe that was where it had started getting worse; maybe it was later, after that. Difficult to pinpoint.

But John has also seen aspects of myself that no one person has seen all of—besides Mycroft and Mummy, of course, but that's different, and John is most certainly neither of them. I get a sense that since John and I are flatmates now, and it could happen (which is utterly ridiculous, and still requires some reflecting upon)—well. I think if the same thing were to happen to John and me, perhaps me just preparing to towel off, him not realizing it and opening the door—perhaps it would be all right. We're even enough; I know some about him that he doesn't know yet. I know how immensely extraordinary he is, and will be. I suppose he could know, if anybody had to, that I, too, have a texture, have wrinkles, have preferences at restaurants. I have an arse. I suppose it would only be fair, if he were to find out about these things.

He wouldn't laugh. Or maybe he would, but it would be in apology. He'd turn red and leave, because John Watson is modest, and he, being real, can blush, like anyone else.

Of course, if he didn't leave, if he just stood there, I'd need more time to process. He'd stand there and lick his lips, as he seems to do frequently when uncertain or contemplative or—well, as he seems to do frequently in general. I would stand there and process.

I'm still processing.

I probably should have said something else, rather than that I'm married to my Work. Perhaps it would have been better if I'd not said anything; it's not as if I'd needed to; the conversation was over, we were done, but I was still doing a little processing of what he meant, when he'd asked about—about having a boyfriend, about being unattached—and there he was, waiting, meaning things, and god knows what they were, and something need to be said, so I said it, because I'll be damned if you (not you; you're a skull) ever once anticipated being asked on a date by someone from—novels, or fairy-tales, or—

But he's real, of course. And he's here. And he's my flatmate. He's sleeping here, upstairs, which is where his bedroom is, because he lives here, with me.

I don't know why he left to go to the past to see me. Of course I can't ask; of course I can't have known to try to ask before. There's nothing to deduce, yet, either; I can merely speculate, which is generally something I avoid, but I think in this case, it is worth considering. To…anticipate possible future occurrences.

I don't think he's leaving. I think—I think this is where things are supposed to pick up. I think this is where I meet him, and he meets me, and we become flatmates, and friends. He's not hiding the time-travel—he's not hiding much of anything, really, that I haven't already deduced aloud for him. And his face, and his demeanor, as he realized that I know how much he needs a bit of thrill, a bit of danger, a bit of adrenaline—he was relieved, relieved to find someone who understood. I owe him at least that—at least as much understanding as I can manage. I can understand danger. I can give it to him, too. And I will.

And is that what we do, then? He moves in, and he is my audience, and I am his supplier of excitement? I bring him along on more cases like today's—and then what? Is this be beginning of whatever leads to John Watson pretending to be lost and asking my six-year-old self to draw a map for him?

I don't think he's got a time machine hidden away somewhere; I don't think he's even got thoughts about a time machine. I would be able to see it on his face, if he did. He's not keeping any secrets from me.

He's moving in. Tomorrow. Right now, he's asleep in the upstairs bedroom. Still there—I checked. I'll help him move. (He says he doesn't have much. I'm sure he'll still appreciate the assistance. Perfect excuse to avoid giving my statement to Lestrade for at least a few hours.)

I think he's staying. I think he's going to stay and be my flatmate. I'll be able to text him and he'll answer. I tested it, I can text him to come and he shows up. He's here, in the world, in London, all the time, and that means that when I need him, I can have him—not just for half an hour, not just by chance, not just when I'm least expecting it and least prepared for it, not just in the form of a skull that I talk to when who I really want to talk to is John Watson.

Not, of course, that he'll always come, I'm sure. Not that he'll always answer straight away. Not that he won't do it without some groaning. Not that he'll be able to remain in a constant state of exactly the man I remember, because he's not actually like that, of course, and especially not all the time, because yes, thank-you, I'm well aware that I formed particular ideas about him when I was too young to have sufficient control over such things, and that I met him when things like heroes were possible. I'm aware he'll disappoint me. We discussed this. It's the nature of—well. Everyone.

Because he is still an idiot, just as we braced ourselves for. Of course he is. But he's a different sort of idiot than everyone else. Yes, he's apparently got the same allergy to observing that everyone else has got, but he does listen; he does try to understand; he's still John. He says things like, "Not good, Sherlock"—like he did the first time—and like he said again tonight ("Bit not good," he agreed, when I asked). Perhaps for him it wasn't again—perhaps he only said it to me before—later—because he remembers me saying it, suggesting it, this time. And maybe he'll say it to me again, and again, and again. But just like the first time, he uses it as a helpful reminder, as a tag for something I did, not as a tag for me. That is the particular sort of idiot John is: he points out not good for me because he, apparently, expects that I be (am) (do) good. (I suppose Mrs. Hudson may be that sort of idiot as well. But perhaps she's more perceptive than I give her credit for: Why did she take you away earlier tonight? Did she know, somehow, that John would be replacing you? No, maybe not. When I came to fetch you back it became evident she may have taken you simply as an excuse to lure me down for late-night tea and biscuits and gossip.)

So, true: John does need rather a bit of assistance in following my deductions, just like any other ordinary person, just like any other idiot. But he's also—well—John. John with the calm and quiet voice. John with the sturdy stance. John who clearly hasn't smiled much lately, but whose smile lights up for me, of all things. It was a bit rusty, perhaps, a bit unused, but it grew easier and brighter the more we ran and the more I spoke, and when, do you suppose, is the last time that my speaking made anyone smile? He laughed. He called me amazing. We sprinted to the flat and giggled against the wall and when Lestrade's sniffer dogs were upstairs (dogging me, as dogs do), he defended me, for his first time, and obviously the first time of many, between now and when he goes back and defends me seventeen years ago. I know this because of the other thing he did today, that really good thing, he—when he shot that cabbie, clean and precise, from a building away, and he became the John I already know, hero-John. My John. He shot a bad cabbie for me, and that means he's staying, doesn't it? He said he's moving in. He called me amazing and brilliant. He thought the flat was "very nice indeed," you heard. You know. You saw him. He's staying, don't you think? It will be good for him. It already is.

But what remains to be seen is—2012. Or maybe not long after, can't have been too long, his notebook looked new and he was wearing the same jacket as tonight (and not all that much less worn than when I saw it). So, two years or so, and then he'll go away, time-traveling. Without me. Why? Will we no longer be friends in 2012? If not, then, why would he continue to meet me, to find me, if he no longer desired to see me?

Or did we initially begin traveling together, and were separated? Does something happen to me? If that's the case, wh—

—but all this is ridiculous, of course. To theorize before having all the data is not only foolish but also dangerous—and doubly so, I think, when it comes to something as time travel, where facts are so easily twisted.

All I can say for certain, all the facts that I have, are that John is here, that John plans to move in. I theorize that he will be staying. I theorize that I will become his friend as he has become mine. How long either of these things lasts, and what brings them to an end—why John would come back in time to find me—these remain to be seen. I can only hope that when he goes, under whatever conditions he goes, he is sure to come back. I expect he will be a very difficult flatmate to replace.