John Watson watched the light of Saturn blink in and out of view between tree branches and buildings, he imagined he could see the distant rings pulling the spot of light into a soft oval, gleaming hazily through thin wisps of fleeing clouds. Worry creased his brow, thoughts of an old friend, a face reduced to photographs, forever two dimensional, a life so different from the one he had now.
He was exhausted from a twelve hour shift in A&E, his face was drawn and his shoulder throbbed. He had taken two codeine before he had left, they weren't working.
Two car accidents, two gunshot wounds, one self inflicted, four homeless, one overdose, a pregnant woman with abdominal pains who had miscarried in the ambulance, a sixteen year old with appendicitis, a twenty four year old chain smoker, two heart attacks, a broken arm, a stab wound and a motorcyclist who would never walk again. Seven deaths.
All John wanted to do was to sit down on his own familiar toilet, scrub the reek of disease out of his skin, and curl up beside the woman of his dreams.
Mary made him look up when he felt as if he had been looking down all his life. She made the world not boring. The universe was her canvas and she painted with plasma and distant points of light.
The shifting, regular patterns of traffic lights slid over the interior of the cab. John leaned into the place where the seat met the door one foot twitching as he watched London drift by in the sleepy three AM haze. He was still wearing green hospital scrubs under his short leather jacket, they smelled of sick. His phone rotated slowly in his fingers, trained to be steady under pressure. His wife's strange phone call still echoed in his head.
Mary was at home alone with a stranger. John's breath caught in the sudden realization and he shifted uneasily in his seat. Someone who claimed the identity of a dead man. For what purpose? What twisted machination inspired this deceit?
When you have eliminated the impossible… a familiar voice began but John shook it aside. He sat forward as he recognized the yellow awning of the Chinese place at the end of Baker Street.
He shoved some bills at the Cab driver and got out into the middle of the abandoned road, pavement still reflective with rain.
Light from the living room was bright against the curtains. In the still of the night voices could be heard through the open window; his wife's musical giggles and that crisp, baritone paragon of the Queen's English, a voice he hasn't heard for three years.
John makes for the front stoop and stops to grab a brown paper package from the stairs before unlocking the door. The voices are clear in the entrance hall. The door at the top of the stairs casts a warm glow on the wall of the landing.
"The landlady cut us a deal," Mary was saying, "A few years back her last tenant threw himself off a roof." Laughter, familiar laughter, the sound of home and adventure, and… "she didn't have the heart to make John leave if he couldn't pay it on his own."
"Does he still do that thing where he just walks out of the room when you're talking to him and when he gets back he just pretends he was keeping up with the conversation?" John freezes, hand white on the banister, he is suddenly terribly aware of the slow passage of time.
"Constantly! And it's like he waits for exactly the most crucial moment to decide to take the trash out."
"Or eat."
"He is very fond of it."
"Ooh, has he gotten fat?" there's a delighted sneer in Sherlock's voice. Sherlock's voice.
John, with the grace of inevitability, unlocks the door.
"I look out for him; keep Capitan Watson in fighting condition."
"Excellent!" a pause, "I'm going to need him to…" John pushes the door ajar, "keep up." He takes a calming breath and opens it all the way.
And there they sit.
Like teenage girls at a slumber party. Laughing and drinking, chatting like old friends.
Sherlock's long legs are stretched out on the coffee table, a bag of frozen peas drapes one arm, blonde tipped curls splash across the back of the couch. Pallid eyes fixed through the open door.
Mary turns from her perch on the arm of the sofa, a congenial light in her eyes, a crystal glass pressed to her chest.
"Hello John." They both say, as if choreographed.
John's hand goes to his face, he falls heavily against the door frame and for a moment he's not sure whether to faint, or cry or be sick. He wills for the passage of time to stop, he wants to wake up, to pass out, to be anything but here. But when he opens his eyes Mary is setting down her glass on the coffee table and Sherlock is looking fascinated by his reaction. His eyes are blank, curious, analytical and emotionless. And that's what breaks the spell.
He pushes past his wife with a flurry of rough hands. Sherlock's expression changes from curiosity to confusion to trepidation as the diminutive army doctor lunges at him.
Sherlock barely has time to scramble his long legs over the back of the sofa before John has him by the lapels and his back is pushed against the wall.
Sherlock has no mental software to deal with these kinds of emotions. As john pushes his back against the hideous wallpaper he is sharply reminded of the recent damage done to his body, his eyes water with pain as his damaged limb is jarred, the blackened one stings mercilessly.
The look in his friends face is one of rage and betrayal and Sherlock wonders if he can be heartbroken.
Sherlock freezes, curling his arms into his ribs, there are involuntary tears of physical pain in his eyes.
"John." Mary comes up behind him, touching one shoulder blade in an expression of comfort.
"YOU WERE DEAD!" John shouts, clutching the expensive wool of his jacket.
Sherlock's lips part, his eyes dart in a desperate search for evidence in his friend's face, finding nothing there they move plaintively to Mary.
"John." She repeats.
"WHAT THE FUCK?" He shakes the taller man angrily Sherlock's eyes close in pain. He waits for an answer. Mary's hands are pulling John away, Sherlock sinks to the ground breathing raggedly between gritted teeth.
"Calm down." She orders, fingers rubbing her husband's shoulders.
"Jeeesus Christ! Sherlock?" he moans, leaning back against Mary. He looks down at the consulting detective, a pile of fine, dark textiles and long limbs.
But instead of explaining anything, Sherlock merely laughs, "once again, dear John you see but you don't observe."
"Observe what?" john demands, ignoring Mary's comforting hands hooked over his shoulders.
"my arm's broken."