Title: Mirror
Author: Pompey
Universe: BBC Sherlock
Rating: PG
Warnings: implied domestic abuse, spoilers for the show
Word count: 619
Summary: John Watson is an angry man.
Prompt: July 18 - "No, I don't know him. Should I?"
A/N: Not happy with how this turned out but once again, writing in a rush. Also, extreme shout-out to Gardnerhill, who's summation in the story "The Perils of Johnnie" (Chapter Eleven) inspired this.
John awoke to find he had actually lurched out of the chair onto the floor. Bits of the nightmare kept flashing every time he closed his eyes. Thankfully Rosie provided a welcomed distraction. The sound of his rather painful landing had startled her into wailing.
John quickly and guiltily picked her up. He hadn't meant to fall asleep but he'd been so exhausted and she'd been so quiet in her playpen, happily sucking on newly discovered toes . . . . but that was no excuse. Her crying was his punishment for dereliction of duty.
John cuddled her back into soft babblings that gradually sounded a bit more urgent. He checked the clock and it was near her next bottle time to guess what the new problem was. Almost mechanically, John ensured that Rosie was fed, burped, changed, and carefully placed on her back for her nap. Once he was sure she was asleep, he stood and faced himself in the mirror.
Who was this man that he barely recognized? The features were the same as they'd always been but somehow alien.
No, I don't know him. Should I?
No. No, that was just the nightmare. Of course Sherlock Holmes knew him. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, they all knew him. They all knew who he was.
Do you know who you are?
Stop it," John told himself reflexively. "You're being ridiculous."
Was he though? Was he really?
John looked again at himself in the mirror. He was a man who had never planned to become a father but was trying his best now that he was one. He was a widower still grieving the loss of his wife, whom he had loved. He was still a doctor. He was the flatmate and friend of Sherlock Holmes.
You can be more honest than that. You NEED to be more honest than that.
John Watson was an angry man. He always had been. He'd just kept the anger safely caged away behind bars of polite soft-spoken Englishness. Yet it was always there, pacing like a tiger, waiting for its escape. And it did show itself now and again. The sudden curtness when Mrs. Hudson had mentioned his limp on the day they met. When Sherlock had goaded him into attacking him in Belgravia. Lashing out at Sherlock during Moriarty's campaign to smear his reputation. Attacking Sherlock bodily – more than once – after his "resurrection." Lashing out at Sherlock after Mary sacrificed herself. Physically attacking Sherlock when he went after Smith with the scalpel.
Lashing out at Sherlock. Attacking Sherlock. Lashing out. Attacking. Lash out. Attack.
The tiger of rage was out now with a vengeance and John didn't know how to get it back in. Wasn't sure if he even wanted to.
No, I don't know him.
Well, John did know. And if he didn't like who he was becoming. His own subconscious was screaming at him from within the nightmare, begging him to take back control before it destroyed him and his relationships with everyone who still loved him. Before he was no longer the John they knew.
Before he turned into his own father.
John glanced at Rosie. For her sake, he could try. He was a father, but he wasn't HIS father. He could make that choice. He wasn't ready for yet another therapist, having been burned twice - first by incompetence and then by sheer criminal psychopathy. But there were techniques online. There were gun ranges and gyms and journals.
There were still blogs, even. Though perhaps it would be better to stay anonymous this time.
No, I don't know him.
And there were still mirrors where he could stare at himself and try to relearn who he was.