And a Happy New Year

We went out for dinner on Christmas Eve. I had finally admitted I had been in the army, though I lied about my time in Afghanistan. I told him about my time in Iraq instead because I feared he would recognise my face in the end.

I had lied about my surname as well. My new passport said my name was Ian Tofield, so I had told him my name was Sebastian Tofield, but that I preferred to be called 'Seb'. I hated it though. Every single bit of it. Jim had teased me with that name and after his death I had developed a sentimental feeling towards that nickname. But I wanted to keep every attention away from my real, full name.

But I was happy. Happy I had a friend. And most of all, happy that I had someone to share my pain with.

To more we met, the less we talked about—them. We had a lot in common, also personality-wise. And our talks about our interests soon flooded over our pain. Which was good I suppose. We would have to move on at some point. And somewhere, I hoped John would be willing to move on with me

But it was on Christmas Eve when we picked up our conversation about them again. I had bought John a present which I gave him when we were having a cup of coffee after enjoying our dinner.

I took the package from my inside pocket. It wasn't that big, but I had wrapped it and tied a bow on it. I had felt stupid when I had looked at the finished product, and had almost decided to throw it away right there and then. It was a stupid present; maybe even inappropriate, but I hoped John would like it.

'I, er-,' I stammered, looking down at the present in my hands, still doubting whether it would be a good idea or not. 'I read this— a few weeks back and I thought— that you would like— well not like, actually – I thought it might help you too.'

His eyes widened with confusion as I pushed the package in his hands.

'Help me?' he asked as he narrowed his eyes, looking at me and then down to the package. He was silent for half a minute.

'I haven't got you anything,' he said as he looked up at me, shaking his head as if he meant to say he was sorry.

I shook my head and assured him: 'I don't want anything. Your company is a gift already.'

John jerked his head back and pressed his lips together, eyebrows now deeply frowned.

'That sounded really corny,' but his lip curled with amusement as he pulled at the ribbon.

I shrugged my shoulders and chortled with amusement.

'It's true,' I admitted and watched how he unwrapped the present.

It was a book; one that I had read as well. I figured it wasn't a nice present, but I never believed in niceties. It was useful. It had helped me the past few months. And I hoped it would do John good as well.

John read the cover, which said:

Those Who Get Left Behind, by Dr. J. Finnemore.

I awkwardly scratched the side of my head, averting my eyes as I spoke:

'I – I've read it. It – it helped me. I thought you would—'

I looked up at the man across me and felt my heart sink when I saw he didn't look amused. He stared at the cover, and I could see he had his jaws clenched tightly together. He swallowed hard.

'I— I know it's not something one wants to think about during Christmas—'

No reply came from the other man.

'If you don't like it, just throw it away. I've already read it, so—'

The doctor abruptly got up, seized his jacket from the back of his chair and marched out of the restaurant, leaving me to stare after him with confusion and fear.

I shouldn't have given him the damned book.

I got up at once, taking my jacket as well. I had already paid the bill so none of the staff looked up as I rushed out after John.

Once outside, I looked down the road, to my left and right. I spotted John marching away in the distance, and I started to run.

'John!' I shouted and caught up with the other man, placing my hand on his shoulder to halt him. 'John, I – I'm sorry if I –'

He raised his hands, the book still in his left. But he didn't look at me, and when he spoke, I could feel the pain in his voice.

'N-No, I'm sorry,' he apologised, although I didn't know why he would. I had given him a ridiculous present after all. 'I—sorry, I shouldn't have—'

'It's fine,' I assured him, my hand still on his shoulder. 'It's an inappropriate present. I shouldn't have given—'

'No, it's—it's good,' the doctor said and shook his head, briefly meeting my worried look.

I feared what my present would do to him now that he reacted like this. Would it help him? Or would it push him off the mountain I had tried to help him climb? I had extended my hand to him, but would this book make him let go of my hand?

I hoped he still saw that therapist of his...

The doctor continued:

'It's – it's a good present, Seb. Thank you, it's just—'

And he turned away from me again and I feared he would run off again. But instead, he spoke:

'It—it's just— I miss him so much,' his voice trembled and he didn't meet my eyes, which he had pressed shut so tightly, as it trying to shut them off from any tears.

'I know you do,' I said and without thinking wrapped an arm around his shoulder. To my great astonishment, he flung his arms around my chest. I placed my other hand on the back of his head and let him cry.

Normally, I wasn't the hugging type. In fact, I hated physical contact in forms of affection. Jim had never been affectionate but we would only touch when—

Well, when we needed to.

But John Watson was the complete opposite of what Jim Moriarty had once been. He was friendly, caring, and gentle. He would probably be a completely different lover than Jim had been.

I shut my eyes at that thought, feeling disgusted with myself for thinking that right now. I was a man in control, and I would not touch John in any other way until— until—

Until he wants me to.

Kudos for those who spotted the cameo ;)

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