John Watson groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers.
Why wouldn't she just stop talking?
The woman before him evidently was oblivious to his obvious annoyance.
"… and you know what I found when I started cleaning up after him – by the way, thanks so much for setting that example for him," his ex-wife huffed angrily.
Ex. He had never been so happy with those two letters. They meant he wouldn't have to deal with her again for a week.
"Are you even listening, John? He had a toy gun!" she exclaimed, furious.
"They're pretty common for boys his age, Mary," he grumbled. "It's not as if he could do any harm with it.
"No harm? What about his mental stability? You're encouraging violence to a four-year-old!"
"I encouraged defense. Believe it or not, he may actually need to use a gun someday." His voice held a biting edge. Unwanted memories flashed before his eyes. Exhaling deeply, he relaxed. "And it's only a toy, Mary."
She glared at him briefly before uttering angrily, "You're impossible, John Watson." With that, she snatched her purse from the bench they shared. As she stormed off, she called over her shoulder, "That gun had better not come with him next week." She marched to where their son stood with his namesake and gave him a hug goodbye. With a final glare, she got into a cab and drove away.
John didn't see her leave.
His eyes were locked on a pair some fifty feet away. Staring into them, he was thrown into a memory that occurred only minutes ago, yet it seemed like a lifetime.
A spark of panic ignited when he realized he had no idea where his son was. How had he escaped yet again?
Hindered by his limp, he began ascending the slight slope in the direction of the playground. Perhaps he was just playing over there….
He was stopped by a noise behind him. He turned to find his son sitting, sniffling, on the ground, with a man in dark clothing attempting to comfort him.
He worried for a moment before breaking into a smile. Sherlock had just leapt into the extremely uncomfortable stranger's arms. The fear dissolved, and he slowed to a more comfortable pace.
Eyes trained on the pair, he chuckled again as the man glanced hopefully around the park. It appeared as though John was less noticeable in his older age.
A few moments later, he decided to make his presence known. "Sherlock," he called.
Both heads turned, and the man set his boy on his feet. He smiled down at the ground – his son must have introduced himself. When he didn't hear the patter of feet approaching, he looked up once more to see Sherlock gripping at the man's coat. Hiding a grin once more, he watched the grass again. It was good to make a memory of it before it was hidden by the coming winter.
As two polished shoes entered his field of vision, he finally looked up to great his son's rescuer.
And stared.
He knew those eyes.
He was frozen in place and could only watch, stunned, as the pupils he was trained on exploded, nearly swallowing the icy gray irises. His own widened simultaneously.
Well, at least this explained his ease with a stranger handling his son.
Unsurprisingly, the thought brought no comfort.
His eyes scanned the pale face before him, waiting for the image to dissolve. This must be a dream.
And yet the sheen of cold sweat was most definitely there. As were the high cheekbones and unruly locks of dark hair. He knew that scarf, had rummaged through that coat.
He had felt that wrist, and its lack of pulse.
He had seen this man dead.
All too soon, that look of dreadful shock had left the eyes he knew so well, and his open face had once again become a cold, calculating mask. He looked at John as if he were a perfect stranger.
Worse. He looked at John as if he weren't there.
And suddenly he was leaving, turning to disappear again. He was surprised by the sound of himself whispering, "Sherlock?" The voice was unfamiliar – it was far too quiet, too weak, too broken to be his own. He completely missed his son's response, distracted by the fact that he'd stopped him, the man was no longer leaving. He was almost relieved.
The world spun around him, and he was falling. No, he was moving, touching, halting the man turning to go.
He would not let him leave. Not again.
And again their eyes met. Then it was broken for an instant as the cold ones melted before closing, and the man shook his head. He frowned and his eyes flew open again. It was as if he couldn't control their gaze.
They held there for an instant that felt like an eternity. Neither moved to leave, neither attempted to hide the hurt disbelief welling up.
Once more his voice unexpectedly broke the tense quiet. "God, it's not you. It can't be you. You're dead. I saw you. I felt your…." And the man before him looked dizzy and confused. He looked like a frightened animal about to flee. He only tightened his grip in response.
That heightened contact only served his disbelief. He couldn't be here, couldn't be touching Sherlock Holmes, the man who was alive but not. This was wrong.
And suddenly, his hand was moving without his permission, intending to prove this image's non-existence. For just an instant, he considered that he may have gone insane. It was probably just some man who looked similar, and now he was about to punch him-
But his hand connected, despite his pitiful efforts to stop it. And when it did, he knew it was real. A flash of faded memory flashed through him at the familiar feeling of his fist connecting with Sherlock's face. It was the first time they'd met Irene Adler. However, this time he hadn't avoided the nose and teeth. How Ms. Adler would have been disappointed. He almost smiled.
Then he was clutching an aching fist, glaring at it as if it offended him by hurting. "Jesus," he growled, checking for broken bones. For a split second, he forgot precisely why he was in pain, and a low moan below him launched him back into his situation. Sherlock was on the ground beneath him, blood running, unhindered, down his pale face. The icy eyes locked on his once more, no accusations or hints of betrayal in them.
At the innocence, he recognized his actions. He'd just brutalized this man for simply existing! "You're… alive? Oh, God, no. You were dead, and Moriarty was dead, and I…" he cut off, a thought occurring to him. This was the man who was constantly ignorant of others being equal human beings, as well as the man who was arse to nearly everyone he talked to. "And I just gave you what I've known you've fuckin' deserved for the past eight years!"
He began to giggle madly, bending over and gasping for breath. Oh, God, it felt good to laugh. It was the first true laugh he'd had in seven years. Perhaps it was due to his age, or possibly the leftover panic at this enormous shock – likely the latter – but he was losing air fast, and then he couldn't stand, so he opted to fall to his knees beside the now-chuckling sociopath. And at this, the low rumble turned to a full-fledged fit, and Sherlock rolled to his side as well. Both were oblivious to the child next to them, and the stares their laughs were receiving.
And John reached out, internally sighing in relief as his fingers clutched the think wool of a familiar dark coat. He wrapped his fingers tightly around his wrist, determined not to let him slip away. No, he wouldn't get away again. John wouldn't allow it – couldn't survive it if he left again.
That was when he finally recognized the feeling that had been welling up in his chest ever since they first met eyes. Hope began to bloom once more. The nightmares didn't matter. The divorce didn't matter. The odd looks didn't matter.
Sherlock Holmes was alive. John Watson was no longer alone. And there was hope.
A/N: Due to the surprising amount of positive replies, I've decided to continue this fanfiction. Again, reviews are more than welcome and very appreciated. Thank you!