John Watson was pissed, and it wasn't just because of the half-empty bottle of scotch in front of him. He was angry—very angry. No, make that livid.
He could see the concerned looks from the bartender as he poured another drink, gripping the glass a bit too tightly. He knew he was being obnoxious and rude, acting like one of the regular drunks that frequented the pub.
But deep down, he knew that he wasn't like those other patrons. He wasn't drinking for ordinary reasons. In fact, he would bet he was the only person in the history of this pub—or any pub, for that matter—getting completely wasted for this particular reason.
"Bloody wanker," he muttered, the words escaping him like a hissed curse. He slammed the glass down on the table with such force that it resonated throughout the pub, drawing the attention of those around him.
Even the fiery burn of the liquor sliding down his throat couldn't quite drown out the painful knot in the pit of his stomach.
Reluctantly, he set his glass down and rested his hand on his knee, aware that if he didn't, he would break the glass in his grip. His fist tightened and relaxed rhythmically, a primal urge coursing through him—he wanted to hit something.
Someone.
Definitely someone.
Preferably that cocky, cap-wearing show-off who...
"Excuse me?"
"What?!"
John spun to his right and saw a woman looking at him with eyes as big as saucers. He felt his stomach drop.
"Oh hell, I... I'm sorry," he mumbled, sending the woman a small smile in hopes that it contrasted with his earlier outburst.
The woman's expression shifted, clearly taken aback. John watched as her eyes darted nervously over to a nearby table of women, all of whom were observing the two of them with hawk-like intensity, seemingly ready to intervene if things escalated.
Bloody hell, when did John Watson, soldier and doctor, become a man from whom women felt they needed protection?
"I really apologize for snapping at you like that. It's not like me. I'm just having a really rough day; it's nothing personal," he explained, trying to ease the tension.
She studied him for a moment, her expression softening. Slowly, her posture straightened, and a spark of determination shone in her eyes.
"It's alright. Well, it's not really, but I can tell you're going through something. That's why I came over. Is this seat taken?" she asked, gesturing to the empty chair beside him.
In fact, two chairs were empty on either side of John. The bar was packed, with some people even standing.
...He chose not to read too much into it.
"Yes, of course. I mean, no, it's not. It's not taken," he stammered.
"Thank you," she replied as she slid into the chair beside him.
John watched her send a quick look to her friends, giving them a nod. Then she turned to John with a smile.
"I'm Bonnie," she introduced herself, her eyes sparkling with warmth.
It took John a moment for his alcohol-affected brain to catch up.
"But I am!" he blurted out, causing Bonnie to jump in her seat.
"...Sorry?" she asked, clearly confused.
"You asked if the chair is taken, and it isn't, but I am. John—me—is taken."
Bonnie blinked at him in bewilderment.
"Oh, I see. Well, it's nice to have that cleared up, I guess. I just thought, given you were sitting here alone and drinking, you might want some company..."
John shook his head vigorously.
"No. I am taken. I am very taken… by a woman," he added, feeling a nagging need to clarify. He could hear the defensive tone in his voice and couldn't do anything to stop it. He blamed Mrs. Hudson and her years of misconceptions.
"That's nice, John," Bonnie replied, her voice almost indulgent.
"Yes! Nice. Very nice. Very nice woman. Really, she's great," he continued, his words spilling out with enthusiasm. "She's thoughtful, you know? She does things!"
The woman laughed a little nervously, her eyes flicking from him to her friends.
"What kind of things does she do, John?" she asked hesitantly.
"She… She brings me tea when I'm working late. She buys me new shirts… and she doesn't make me shave my mustache, even though she hates it… apparently."
The hot knot in his stomach returned.
"And you know what else? You know what the best thing about Mary is?"
"Hm?"
"She doesn't jump off buildings."
The nervous smile on the woman's face quickly faded, replaced by a look of utter confusion.
"What?" she asked, furrowing her brow.
"Yeah, she's never jumped off a building and made me think she's dead."
"Oh, that's… well, I guess that's great?" Bonnie replied hesitantly.
"It is great! It's fantastic!" John exclaimed, his frustration bubbling over. "It means she truly cares about me. And you know what, Connie...?"
"Bonnie," she interrupted weakly, but John continued, undeterred.
"…that's what people do when they care! They don't just decide to jump off buildings. They don't make such decisions without including you in the decision-making process. It's just common courtesy!"
Bonnie gave him a bewildered look, uncertainty mingling with worry.
"And you know what else? When you live with someone who really cares, you come home from a long day at work, and what do you find? A lovely dinner waiting for you, all nicely plated and wrapped up. But when you live with someone who doesn't care, you know what you find?" He paused dramatically, glancing at Bonnie.
She shrugged, her gaze darting nervously to her friends.
"What you find is a severed head on the table and bloody eyeballs in egg compartment!"
The harsh scrape of a chair jolted John from his rant. He turned just in time to see Bonnie bolt back to her friends, her face a mask of alarm. She whispered frantically, her eyes wide, and her group glanced back at him, shock evident on their faces.
Perfect. Bloody brilliant!
John Watson had officially become that guy—the creep, the outcast, the subject of whispered stories. He had morphed into the very thing he…
He had become him.
With a sudden surge of frustration, he snatched the bottle of scotch from the bar, bypassing the glass entirely, and took hefty swigs straight from the neck. The burn in his throat barely registered as he downed more than he should, numbing not just his throat, but also the chaos in his mind.
"Easy there, mate. I think you've had enough," the bartender interjected, concern etched on his face.
Oh great, to him, John must look like a lost cause—a drunk stumbling through his own life. For heaven's sake, John was hardly a regular drinker! ...Maybe that's why he was feeling so tipsy?
He only belatedly realized the bartender had continued talking to him. As John's mind spiralled, he knew he'd been zoning out. The bartender's voice drifted over to him, but he couldn't grasp any of it; his thoughts were slipping further away.
"What…?" he attempted to respond, but his tongue tripped over itself, turning his words into an indecipherable mess.
The bartender sighed in resignation. "Alright, mate, listen up. You're cut off. You really should get some rest. Want me to call a taxi, or do you have a buddy who can come get you?"
At that moment, a name flickered in John's mind—Sherlock.
Oh, bloody hell!
That insufferable wanker had barely been back for a minute, and he had already managed to sneak into John's head, getting under his skin so quickly it was as if he had never left. His presence was already ripping apart John's neatly assembled new life.
It was infuriating how swiftly Sherlock had reclaimed his territory in John's thoughts after years of absence.
"I don't need him! I don't need him in my life. Not anymore!" he bellowed—or at least that's what he wanted to say. But the bartender's bewildered expression suggested that the execution had fallen a bit flat.
Oh, who cares!
John rose unsteadily from the barstool, the world spinning for a longer minute before finally slowing down and stopping. He tossed a handful of bills onto the counter, the exact amount being a mere afterthought as anger surged through him.
He stormed out into the brisk night air, each step unsteady; his world was swimming, and so were his thoughts.
He just knew he was angry… so utterly angry!
After everything they had been through, Sherlock still… God, he must not have cared about John at all, did he? That was the only explanation he could think of that would allow Sherlock to hurt him like that. To let him keep hurting for two years!
The cold wind bit at his cheeks as he staggered through the familiar streets of London—the very paths they once walked side by side…
A frustrated grunt escaped him, drawing curious glances from passersby who surely wondered what was wrong with him.
He was angry. So angry! He wished… God, he wished he never even met Sherlock Holmes!
Maybe if he hadn't run into Mike Stamford that day, things could have turned out very differently. Perhaps if he hadn't met Sherlock Holmes, his life would be normal.
Yes, he was in a bad place back then, but it would surely pass. He was a soldier; he would pull himself together, find a job, and secure a place to live. It might not be in a prime location, but it would still be somewhere nice—something small and, most importantly, quiet.
Mary would eventually start working at the clinic. He could picture it: a slightly bored war veteran who, after some hesitation, would muster the courage to ask her out properly—whole and unbroken. Not just fragments of a man she needed to piece together first, but someone ready to build a future.
Yes, everything would have been fine—just fine—if only he had never crossed paths with Sherlock Holmes.
He doesn't know where the blinding light comes from, not at first. It takes him a moment—a heartbeat—to realize it's the headlights of a car. What is a car doing on the sidewalk?
Oh, John isn't on the sidewalk anymore...
The last thing he hears is the shriek of a honking horn.
The last thing he sees is a 'taxi' sign on top of the car.
The last coherent thought in his head rings:
Oh, a taxi. That was our first case together.
...And then, there is nothing.
Mike Stamford settled onto a park bench, a newspaper spread open in front of him, enjoying the crisp morning air. There was something rejuvenating about stepping outside the confines of the building, even if just for a moment. The gentle rustle of leaves whispered in the breeze, and the occasional chitter of a squirrel darting about were all things he thoroughly enjoyed. Then he heard the clicking sound of a cane…
Oh, that was new.
Curious, Mike glanced up from his newspaper just in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of a man ambling by, cane in hand, with a noticeable limp affecting his gait.
There was something oddly familiar about him, but Mike couldn't quite place where he recognized him from. He squinted slightly, trying to remember, but found nothing concrete from this distance.
Oh, well.
With a shrug, he returned to his newspaper, dismissing the fleeting thought. The morning was too lovely to dwell on the mystery of the man passing by.