2
Several months prior:
"How long has he been like this?"
"About a month. He was injured, and the wound became infected. The injury is under control, but there is no way to know whether or not he'll beat the virus and wake up. In my professional opinion, John prefers to stay asleep. I hardly blame him."
"How so?"
The nurse shrugged. "He hasn't had a single visitor since he arrive here."
The dark haired man cocked his head at the unfamiliar man in the other room. The soldier lay motionless in the hospital bed, eyes moving rapidly beneath his closed lids. The man wasn't sure why he was so interested in the man. This John Watson was just another victim of war, nothing special. So why did he always pause at this door in the hospital and peer inside. There was no logical reason to do so, but there was something about the man that fascinated him.
It was an unfamiliar fascination, too; not the sort of fascination he drug up about his experiments or peculiar crime. This was a fascination with a person, and there didn't seem to be a logical reason for it. He wondered what John's voice sounded like. What did he look like when he walked? Was he an intro or extrovert?
His own curiosity and fascination baffled the dark-cloaked man.
What was special about John Watson? As far as he could tell, nothing.
So why was he so curious?
Shaking his head at the oddity of it all, he nodded curtly toward the nurse and continued down the hall, hands shoved in his pockets. He needed to think about this phenomenon.
It wasn't long before the man in the dark coat was back at St. Bart's Hospital. He was supposed to be conducting an experiment, but as he passed by John Watson's room, he paused and glanced inside. The soldier lay inside, looking exactly like he always did. Still, pale, eyes roaming beneath his lids.
Perhaps it was because he was bored and he didn't think his experiment would work out anyway, or maybe… just maybe he wanted someone to talk to. Needed. Whatever the reason, he dropped what he was doing before he logic-ed himself out of it and silently entered the hospital room.
For a long time he just stared at John Watson. He slowly sat down. Coughing awkwardly, the man stared at his feet for a moment. "Right, hello. I've seen you a few times and I know you can't hear me but I just…" Why was he doing this? he wasn't sure.
Because it felt… right. Somehow.
"Anyhow, you don't really have anyone to talk to, so you're probably not too picky on the subject … I'm doing an experiment on how to make blood reappear on cloth. It's really fascinating and I'm sure it will be very useful someday … "
At first the words came haltingly, but as he spoke, he soon fell into a comfortable speed, equally grateful and annoyed that John couldn't speak back.
After an hour of voicing whatever he could think of to say, the man in the dark coat stood abruptly and ran a hand through his hair. He had never done something so ridiculous in his entire life, but it felt good. "You're a good listener," he murmured, "better than the skull, but only by a bit. I suppose I ought to go now..."
Not sure how to continue, he sighed and walked out.
He returned several times, but never told anyone of his visits to the unconscious soldier who'd caught his attention. Eventually, the man came to visit but the nurse said that John Watson had been moved to another hospital. Where? She didn't know.
He was saddened by his lack of a Watson, but soon moved on. What else could he do? It wasn't like he would ever see the man again. Besides, the habit was illogical and weak, emotionally.
After what felt like eternity, John was released and given a small apartment, government housing. He acquired a job as a doctor at a small clinic in London and spent most days either at home or at work. Burying himself in life, John learned to ignore the ache in his chest by focusing on the ache in his leg.
He used to dream about his life with his friend Sherlock, but now the dreams took turn for the worse.
John screamed, sitting up quickly. His hand automatically curled around the handgun on his bedside table and after a moment he set in down again. The sun filtered through the blinds and he found himself breathing in the dusty air of the bare apartment.
There was no one here. It was just a dream; a dream he could no longer remember. Growling in frustration, John flung his legs to the side of the bed and ground his fists into his eyes. What was wrong with him? He lived a decent life, got… sort of decent pay. He ate well and his needs were all met.
So why did he feel so empty inside?
John decided to take a walk in the park in a spontaneous burst of hopefulness. Maybe if he got outside, he'd ease the lonely ache. His footsteps were odd and disjointed.
Thump, thump-clip, thump, thump-clip.
The crutch was still present at his side and John found himself tiring. The effects of the coma still lingered and he often felt this way. Yawning boredly, John sat down on a park bench and let his eyes wander aimlessly across the park.
An old woman fed pigeons and children yammered at their parents.
No one noticed him. People hardly ever did. John had a way of disappearing, fading into the background.
So when he heard his name called out from the crowd, John started in surprise and stood with a grunt. A heavy-set man shoved his way toward him with a chubby grin. "I saw your face, and I thought to myself, now, that couldn't possibly be John Watson, Captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, could it?"
John took a step away, skeptical. His memory was still a bit sketchy of late and he didn't quite recall the man. "Ah, yeah, it's me. John Watson. Who-?"
"Oh, that's just brilliant!" the man interrupted, "It's Mike! Mike Stamford!"
Instantly a worm of a memory wriggled in John's mind and he let a small smile creep up his face. "Right, oh, yes! Mike, gosh, it's been awhile!"
Nodding in agreement, Mike looked at John curiously. "What happened to you? I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at."
Truth be told, John hated it when people asked obvious questions. "Got shot," he answered simply.
Mike wasn't put off by John's slight sarcasm, and soon was tumbling off on a completely different train of conversation. John did recall the man being a bit of a gab.
"I just got a new job. I'm working at St. Barts Hospital, heard of it?"
John's eyebrows rose. "I actually was cared for there."
"Really? That's interesting. You must have moved out before I arrived."
"Must have."
To be sure, John wasn't a gab. He was quite content to let his old friend talk. And talk he did. "So have you found a place to stay?" Mike said after a few minutes.
"Of sorts," came John's short reply, "Just government housing."
"Hmm…" Government housing was not a permanent fix and Mike knew it. "Have you looked into sharing a flat? I hear a lot of blokes have been doing that."
John snorted. "Come on, who would want to share a flat with me?"
Strangely enough, Mike gave him an amused look. A mischievous glint lept into his eyes. "You know… you are actually the second person to say that to me today."
John blinked. "... And who was the first?"
AN: Thank you to all of you who favorites and review and followed! Eeeek! I can't wait to post the next chapter! Please leave me a review, I greatly appreciate it!