.
It's a recurrent tradition, marking an anniversary of death and destruction, but also of a new beginning back in London.
In some ways, I'm not entirely sure John is aware of doing it. Going through the motions that are deep set in his subconscious mind. He grieves a loss, ponders unstable times, mourns what could have been instead, bashes himself internally over how better it could have been – as if he alone held the power over fate – he pleads to inconsistent and enigmatic higher powers over what cannot be changed, until finally he gives in, submits to the past and acknowledges it fully, wrapping himself in a light veil of anguish from which he'll emerge a while later, hours or days, back at his full force, soldiering determination and optimistic belief, for the future yet to be determined.
Every year I see John recreate his journey in a desperate, if morbid, attempt to reconcile his personal story with a bullet that nearly ended it prematurely, a medical flight to London, and a restart in a shattered life.
Society commemorates birthdays, anniversaries, funerals, and every other established roadmark in a regular lifetime. It has yet to legitimise John's unique tragedy.
It's not about the sniper's bullet that removed him from the battlefield, or the subsequent infection that threatened to finish what an enemy projectile had started. And what a vile enemy it will have been a sniper that shot a doctor trying to save a life in a deadly conflict; there's no honour in shooting a saviour, no matter what side of the war you find yourself in.
It was not the return to London or the months of physical therapy, whilst isolated and invisible in a once familiar world that had no more use to extract from a life defining career. It was the prospect of an empty, detached, future that damaged John the most. Being suddenly useless when he once commanded power over life and death, fighting supermarket automated checkouts (and losing), catching the packed Underground routinely, when he once had the name, a voice, an army family.
It was not a fall of pride that demoralised John Watson. Pride is elitist and it isolates one high above the rest, while John was eager to connect with this London that no longer recognised him, or welcomed him more than any other anonymous face among the crowd.
It was not a loss of career or income, for John is in all little attached to social recognition or material goods. Apart from a few possessions he treasures – favourite jumpers, coffee mug, illegal gun – that all fit easily into a duffel bag, John brought very little to account for into 221B.
The prospect of reinvention never seemed to weigh heavily on John's mind either, with that quiet, stable sense of self that leads him to stay true to himself.
Broken of body and mind, and disconnected from his family and purpose in life, one would have expected John to have been close to giving up on his new, imposed fight – but that would mean not knowing the amazing, brave and extraordinary person he is.
Not because he's a fighter and he rebuilt himself as the valorous, equal partner of a mad consulting detective. I recognise the immense achievement in those prizes, conquered through gritted determination and daily fight.
Rather because John would never allow himself to give up. Always the hopeful, forever the sarcastic optimist, the man who is ever curious for more, to where he can take himself and protect his friends.
I will not deny John Watson entered 221B with this explicit idea of protecting me. He still thinks I'd take that murderous cabbie's wrong pill, ha! If I'd take any it'd be the right one! John may never have said as much, but his constant attention to my eating, sleeping, breathing habits were proof of attentive care. For my part, I allowed it. In his urge to role play, he demanded of himself a pristine behaviour as my example. By being myself, I made sure he took care of himself.
I too wanted to protect him. Lest he went shooting random cabbies to save other detectives' lives, and John's honest face makes him such a terrible liar that he'd be in deep trouble before the week's end.
That was only the beginning, and John has saved my life spectacularly every other week, and steadfast with his care and devotion most every day.
The constant debt I will forever endeavour to repay.
So when I see the man looking tired, stoic, defeated but marching on, with the periodicity of another year on the shocking events that brought him into my life, I know it's only a revisit of the past, and that in a couple of days he'll notice the copper sulphate solution preserved hand kept in a jar in the cereal cupboard. That is to say, he'll snap out of his abstractions and his brooding over an unfair past he could not choose, and he'll return to his quiet calm, attentive self.
I miss him, when he makes himself far, all the way from the armchair across from mine. Unreachable, revisiting the painful memories of his past. I wish I could grab him, shake him, and remind him he's happier now. It turned out alright, if I may say so myself... But only he can judge that. And every year I fear he'll conclude he's made the wrong choice, he's in the wrong place.
That would be incorrect. I know that, because he fits here. Into our lives. So perfectly.
.
On passing by I make sure to leave John a cup of tea, freshly brewed, to the best of my abilities at least. It's always presumptuous to believe he'll notice, or give it more particular attention than the dusty crevice on the fireplace's grate he's been death staring for ages now. There are four cups of tea on his side table with varying temperatures of the said liquid, along with three abandoned books one of which he has yet to realise is in Portuguese. (Can John read Portuguese? Who knows?)
I huff and bring my knees up, wrapping them in my arms. It always leaves me this discomfited when John is so clearly distracted. He's acting like a man in two different places at once; here and in his memories, defying all logic and laws of physics.
That's John alright. He's a universe in himself, where all my analytical rules do not apply.
Time alone will bring John back to himself. It's a morbid anniversary of a tragic loss in the direction of his life, one he honours every year, one he must bear alone in his mind.
.
'John, I'm taking a case. Will you come with me?'
I watch raptly as the doctor takes dragging seconds to allow my words to carry meaning to him.
'I'm a bit tired', he lies, 'maybe next time?'
His blue eyes, up until now unfocused and chasing shadows of the past in the familiar room, now look straight into mine, pleading me to call him out on his deception.
'Come on, John. I need you. He's a strangler! I need backup.'
He looks away. I must have said the wrong things, the connection has not been established, it has failed. Radio silence.
'Lestrade will be there. He's got a service gun.'
'Lestrade won't let me take the case if you're not there again. He'll think I murdered you in a fit of boredom.'
'Hmm-hmm.'
I grab my scarf with a twang of anguish. Without John, catching the Cargo Lift Strangler is of little fun and no consequence.
Maybe I could let the strangler carry on? Anger, out of listless John would be a bonus at this point, surely.
However, something out of my valorous friend has seeped deep into me, tainting me with his heroism, and I cannot allow the Cargo Lift Strangler to keep succeeding at his murderous impulses. Seriously, it's as if he's begging me to be stopped now. That's what I must do, with or without John there to watch me.
I'll do it in John's honour instead.
.
'John, I swallowed poison by mistake.'
His blue eyes jump at those words, the only part of my friend who seems to capture some interest. He quickly scans me.
'How much poison?' he asks me in his steely voice that it is an echo of the John I miss.
'I licked the spoon I was mixing the solution with by mistake.'
A shadow of an amused grimace crosses his face. There one second, an empty void the next.
'I'll keep you in observation, don't go anywhere, let me know if you start experiencing discomfort. And don't do it again...'
I smile. A glimpse of a victory here. A proof John is still John, from somewhere in the past he's lost at right now. Making his way home from the dangerous sandy deserts.
.
'John, Molly is bringing me a few fresh corpses from the morgue at last!'
He shuffles his sleep bound feet to the proximity of the kitchen kettle. Dishevelled, with a hint of facial hair, in a very creased t-shirt, he is painting the picture of a man who hasn't groomed himself in days.
One day, four hours, twenty seven minutes to be precise.
'Right.' He frowns at the kettle and ticks it off. 'I'll clear off then, you'll need space for your experiments.'
Flabbergasted, I watched him leave without his tea.
I drop my best cup of tea yet on the doorstep to his room two hours later, along with a quick resume of my findings. Thank you, John.
Wish you had been there with me. I found the murderer, and saved a life, it will cheer you up.
.
Lestrade has come to answer John's telepathic distress signal. His friendship with our good doctor is definitely different from mine, but he too must have sensed something bothering our brave friend. Perhaps it was a missed call, or an uncharacteristic pull out of a scheduled football match viewing. John is a creature of habits, and his friends will judge him by his predictive routine. In this case, the clueless inspector has proven some worth to his detective title, coming to investigate John's absence.
'He's upstairs. He's not seeing anyone. He ate a small portion of Cantonese Takeaway earlier, drinks the tea I leave at his door, and uses the rest room regularly. John will snap out of it, inspector, he just needs... time.'
Lestrade looks at me funny, as if he saw something in my report other than reliable, independent statistics.
'You've been keeping a tally', he comments. I nod, tilting my head to a notebook at the edge of the living room's desk. The tally is real. The inspector misses the cue, such as he misses the extra layers of rosin on my bow, as I keep myself occupied directly below John's room. To a musician, any drifting sound a sensorial input, in this case telling me of John's state of mind.
He's been in bed all afternoon. Not at all like John, even after late night chases.
'If you're not careful you'll get mushy with all that caring, Sherlock!'
I shiver at the blow of such a prospect. Damn Lestrade's sense of humour. He speaks again:
'I know you're on the case, and I know you care about John, but I got to ask – have you tried distracting him, letting him talk it out, be nice to him?'
I roll my eyes. Idiot. John is not an experiment. And yes, of course I tried it all. Everything John himself taught me as I trudged my own dark patches. Before I can say anything in my defence, Lestrade somehow reads it off me.
'Yes, of course you tried. John has made you more human, hasn't he?' the inspector concludes in a fatherly tone.
Having had enough now, I grab my violin and bring the bow softly into contact with those taunt, melodic strings.
'New music? It's a bit melancholy, hope you're not coming down with the same our friend upstairs has got into him.' He gets a glare for being such a classical music troglodyte. 'Fine, suit yourself, Sherlock. I just came for the yellow eyed corpse case you said you solved. Do you have my files somewhere? Coffee table? Kitchen table? Sherlock, are those pickled livers? No. Wait. No. Don't mind me asking, I don't wanna know.'
Lestrade finally locates his manila file and leaves with it, knowing full well it also contains the case deductions of liver failure due to years of chronic alcoholism and a misfortunate accident over the railing of a cargo ship docked in Liverpool, the currents bringing the body ashore to the Thames estuary.
I play on, as I mentally review my strange conversation with the inspector. He seems to have this perception over my decisions, choices and thoughts. He thinks he knows me. He is spectacularly wrong.
:
A long hot shower, a quick shave, and a fresh set of clothes are all I need before going downstairs to face Sherlock. I believe I owe him an apology. I haven't been quite myself. That has been unfair on my friend and flatmate. I must face Sherlock at once and try to explain myself, the turmoil of thoughts that have assaulted me for the last few hours, days.
I haven't been a good companion.
As I descend those last few steps I hear the kettle going off. The sensory input of hot boiling water makes me miss the tangy taste of tea. I come into the kitchen determined to make us the familiar beverage, I find Sherlock already putting out two mugs.
'Oh, hiya, Sherlock. I thought I'd find you here. You don't seem to have left the flat at all after that case I declined.'
'Tea?' he asks me carefully, but in his green eyes I read a completely different question.
'Yes.' I answer all the questions, told an untold.
'Good', he decides. We both slip into opposite chairs at the kitchen table.
'Feeling better?' he asks, stunning me with this honest, straightforward manner.
No longer in need of a subterfuge, I nod. 'Yes, thank you.' I had a little nap, lulled by the sound of a constant melody, I followed it home. It helped.
'I hope my violin has not bothered you.'
'Not at all. I see you cleared the kitchen table.'
'Someone had to', he comments. Then he smirks, knowing he has make me wonder if you'll ever do it again. I know he won't.
'Sherlock, I have been a bit off colour', I start...
'Just drop it, John.'
He says no more, but those words carry hidden meanings between us now. He knows what it meant to me to have his support and constancy.
I have indeed been blessed with a truly great friend. He may not be able to fix all twists and turns in my life, he most certainly cannot fix my past for me, but I can never doubt his support and care. Without pressuring me, he has succeeded at supporting my return. And I suss he knows, he suspects, that this may not be the last time. Memories of the past sometimes come back to haunt me. But with Sherlock by my side I fear not the next time they threaten to draw me under the surface. You see, I heard a story as it was told through the melodic lines a violin composition. The melancholy undertones of side notes patrolling the score lines in an isolated lonely march were joined by the supportive chords of a beautiful friendship, tangling and intermingling, as the fuller, beautiful, supportive music formed reminded me of hope, and dreams, and a future yet unwritten. I may have not believed Sherlock if he tried telling me that in so many words. But his music transcended a language I found deceitful, and pierced straight through my self-imposed protective barriers, into my heart. When the English language could have been still void of meaning and littered with platitudes, I found comfort in the familiar thrills of the language of sounds, carrying emotions, silent praise and blusterous promises of better days.
I'm afraid I'm not a musician myself, and if I were I would not have attained this level of master craftsmanship over an instrument that I could speak so honest and generously. I will not back out of a challenge when I see one. Sherlock is my friend, then I will keep attentive to finding an opportunity to repay such beautiful generosity.
'Next tea is on me, Sherlock.'
'If you insist, John. You can make tea all the time from now on. Your tea is far better in quality anyway.'
I am blessed indeed, recompensed in not having given up when times were dark everyday. I know now that there is light among the shadows. A part of me wishes I would have known this when the times were darker. Perhaps that's the magic of it. That if I had known things would get better, I would have been too restless missing something I had not yet, to properly fight for it. I am at a different stage now. I will not rest and take it for granted. I will always marvel at the wonderful light that is my truly supportive friend, and how different life could have been, almost was, but now I know better. I look forward to our future.
.
