If one were to ask John Watson what he had imagined his day to be like, this would definitely not have been his answer

Waking up wasn't the difficult part, not at all. If one had been through the same things as John Watson, you may think you'd want to stay asleep forever. But every morning that he felt himself rousing from his dreams, he was relieved. His dreams weren't enjoyable at all. Actually, they'd never been. If John were to really think back, even to his teenage years, he'd not be able to recall one dream he'd enjoyed. They were always perturbed, bleak, almost always ominous. Yet out of all these dreams he would recall if he were to remember, they were nothing compared to what he experienced now.

For the last two years, his dreams had all been haunted...haunted by a man. This wasn't an ordinary man, mind you, not in the slightest way. He had a mess of dark tresses atop his head that John had never actually seen him groom, yet they always had this flawless look about them, as if he were simply blessed with beautifully styled hair when he rose in the morning. His skin was an alabaster tone, and the man had bloody cheekbones that could cut someone if one were to strike him. He was tall, almost lanky, in John's opinion, but he had a grace about him that was inhuman when he moved about. And by god, this man was not only physical appealing but absolutely brilliant to boot. You could almost tell just by looking into his eyes that he had this massive intellect, which was intimidating at times. John had occasionally felt as though he were inferior to such a human being...That is, until this man would open his mouth to say something that would prove his idiocy when it came to human emotions and nature.

Still, even though this man had been so incredibly beautiful and even more intelligent (and painfully thick at times) than anyone John had ever met, he still didn't want to think about him. Not anymore. It was too painful to bear. After it had happened...Yet John's thoughts never seemed to be able to escape him. He was always there, always whispering, always torturing with his words of wisdom in the back of John's mind. He couldn't smile anymore. Not a real smile. Not after what had happened.

He was gone.

Sherlock Holmes was gone.

The first time they met, John was convinced that the stranger across the lab was an absolute nutter. A madman. He'd been so annoyingly arrogant and pompous, yet there was something about him...something that was almost likable. Almost.

Up until the first step John had taken into that room, he had been miserable, to be quite honest. Utterly depressed. One didn't need to use Sherlock's complicated, idiotic, so incredibly impressive deduction skills to see it; you only needed to look in his eyes. There was always a faint gleam of it, even when he smiled his painfully forged smiles.

John Watson was a respectable man. He'd been trained at St. Bart's as an army doctor and in turn went on to serve as Captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. However, this information was trivial when a bullet ripped into his back to render him useless. John received an honorable discharge from the army and sent home to live on army pension...but there was nothing honorable about a useless, invalided vet.

The war had been his life. It gave him a sense of importance, and not only that, but if John were to be completely honest he would admit that it was enjoyable. He loved the danger, the continuous excitement of risking his life. He could still remember the sweat that would drip into his eyes, the smell of the dirt and the gun powder. The hot sun that had beat down onto his and his mates' backs. He was a thrill-seeker, though he'd never admit it. He was much too humble to say such things about himself.

But he never thought for a moment that it would all come crashing down like it did. Through the many years that he'd served, John came to believe that he was invincible, that he could do anything. He'd never imagined what it was like to get shot. In fact, it never crossed his mind that he was capable of getting shot until it happened. And, by god, if you've never been shot, you'd better be thankful for it. Imagine an 18-wheeler barreling towards you at 300 kph and hitting you in a half-square inch of your skin. John had no idea that such a tiny little thing could cause one's entire body to lurch forward the way that it did. He wasn't sure if it had been the force of the bullet or his body reacting to the immense pain. A bullet wound is a tiny hole in the skin. Yet the damage that this minuscule wound caused, physically and mentally, was nothing short of devastating.

Some soldiers say that signing their life away was one of the most difficult things they'd ever done. This was not the case for John Watson. Coming home, being ripped away from the war, was the most difficult thing he had ever done. He was sent home on a helicopter and designated to recover in the hospital. During this recovery, there was a constant nagging feeling of futility that he couldn't seem to shake. He convinced himself it would soon pass once he began to walk again, but after months of physical therapy, it was apparent that this emptiness he felt in the depths of his soul was not about to subside so easily. The limp that had developed made it all the more humiliating. Not once did John ever think he would become so completely useless, so utterly pathetic.

He found himself trapped, isolated inside a flat in the middle of London, for goodness sake. It was supposed to be his sanctuary, yet the four walls of the studio seemed to close in around him. He didn't belong there. He belonged on the battlefield. Every night he dreamed of the gunfire and the bomb explosions and the helicopters looming overheard. John begged, pleaded to a deaf god to save him from his misery but there was no light at the end of this tunnel.

Not until he met Sherlock Holmes.

Thanks to the stranger who could tell him his own life story within 5 minutes of their meeting, John had felt purpose again. When he stood next to Sherlock Holmes, he felt alive. Sherlock was almost...like an angel. What an embarrassing thing to think, but still it was true. The madman had saved him from his misery. At least...the first time around he had. This time, though, Sherlock wasn't coming back to save him.

There was no coming back from the dead.

It was still fresh in his mind, clear as day. He remembered the terror that struck his heart when he watched Sherlock jump off that building. He couldn't breathe as he watched his friend plummet to his death. A bloody biker smashed into him before he could round the corner to see. By the time he'd come to his feet, there was a bloody crowd. A crowd! They were all surrounding Sherlock, his Sherlock. They were all in the way. Why couldn't they just get out of the way? He kept repeating to people who tried to push him away that Sherlock was his friend.

He remembered everything. He remembered the numbness that he felt when he looked down at the form on the ground. He remembered how awfully red the blood had been that was spreading across the pavement. He remembered his heart beat ringing in his ears as he leaned down to feel for a pulse in a futile attempt to hope that Sherlock was still alive. But the one thing he remembered the clearest were his eyes. They were so vacant, so empty...They were so dead.

That day had changed his life forever.

John still lived in the same flat on the same street. 221B Baker Street, to be exact. It was the same flat that he and Sherlock had shared. It was different now, though. None of the furniture had been moved but all of Sherlock's research papers and chemistry set had been neatly packed away into storage. It had taken John a year to muster up the courage to move it all. It took a year for the reality to truly set in that Sherlock wasn't coming back. Not this time.

The one room that John never entered was the one next to the washroom. Sherlock's clothes still hung in his wardrobe. His shoes were still lined in his closet, the bed still unmade from the last time he'd rolled out of it. The door leered at him even now as he sat in the dingy old green chair that Sherlock used to sit in while he sipped at his tea. His days off were sometimes spent like this, sitting in Sherlock's chair while he surfed the web on his laptop. Really it was just so that he could glance up every few minutes at the door that guarded painful memories.

John was different now. Instead of feeling trapped as he did before Sherlock, now he felt the need to be alone. The outside world with all its magnificence and its bustling life didn't exist anymore, not to John Watson. He avoided it whenever possible. In his eyes, it was all just a painful reminder of all the memories he shared with Sherlock. Every street, every building that he walked by was a reminder of conversations or wild chases, and John couldn't stand it. So there he stayed, inside his flat, isolated. He'd learned to cope with the utterly miserable loneliness, to just 'deal with it.'

At first, he did nothing but grieve. It was difficult to even get out of bed. At times, he would simply lay there on his back, staring at the ceiling, crying shameful tears of sorrow as he remembered. He felt as if every painful sobbed wracked his soul. On the days that he was able to do more, it was limited to him readying himself only to end up sitting in the comfort of his chair. He didn't eat. When he slept, it was very little, as his dreams were haunted by the man in the long coat and the blue scarf. It was utter pain. With every breath, every second that ticked away, he felt an indescribable pain that throbbed in his heart. He always thought heartache was just a figure of speech but thinking of Sherlock really did cause his heart to physically ache.

The notification of a text drew his attention away from the thoughts that plagued his head and his heart. John hadn't realized he was crying. Giving a light sniffle, he wiped the salty trails from his face and reached over to pick the phone up.

Get in the car.

Brow furrowed, his gaze lifted from the phone with a hint of confusion. It was not a number that he recognized. Pushing himself from the chair, John wandered to the window in time to see a sleek black car pull up in front of Speedy's. No one got in. No one got out.

Another text.

Now.

John swallowed hard.

Any normal person would probably send a message back questioning the motive...but John wasn't exactly normal. He turned from the window to cross the room with quick, length strides, grabbing his coat on his way out of the door. The stairs creaked under his steps as they always did and, hurriedly, he slipped out of the front door.

The fresh air that hit his nose was rejuvenating and John breathed it in greedily as he stepped down the short staircase to the pavement, legs carrying him swiftly to the black car. He much didn't care to notice the people that walked up and down the street or how nice the day was faring. His concentration was on the matter at hand. Hand was perfectly still as he reached forward to open the door and slid into the back, closing it behind himself with a thump.

John asked no questions. He learned a long time ago that, in situations like this, questions only made you look like a twit. As soon as the door shut behind him, the car was put into drive. Fingers laced in his lap as he waited patiently, watching the world go by outside the window as he wondered silently to himself who was behind this, although it was likely this was probably Mycroft's doing. He was known for convincing John to climb into strange cars. Anxious, John's heart jumped at every turn the car made.

It appeared that they'd made their way to the destination, as the car rolled to a stop in front of a strange building. John had never been here before. In fact, he'd never even been in this part of the town. Exiting, he closed the door and immediately the sleek black car disappeared down the street. Well. He supposed that meant he may be here for a while. Adjusting the jacket around himself, John glanced up and down the now vacant street before stepping up to the door; it opened with a long, drawn-out squeak.

The place seemed to be an old warehouse, one that had construction commenced long ago but was never completed. His eyes traveled around the dank rafters and frames, a musty scent hitting him square in the nose, which wrinkled from the unpleasant smell. The building seemed to be empty but somebody was expecting him here. Still, his eyes traveled around the place until they landed on a familiar figure.

His heart stopped.

The curious expression dropped from his features, replaced by a look of disbelief.

John swallowed hard as he stared in utter shock.

Cerulean orbs peered at him, curtained by brunette locks of curl and cheekbones that could cut someone if one were to strike him. A tall, slim, almost lanky frame cast a shadow on the dusty floor. There he stood, in all his magnificence. Living. Breathing.

Sherlock.

Sherlock wasn't dead.

At first, it was as if John's feelings were malfunctioning. His heart was tugged in all different directions at once until it felt as if it were going to explode in his chest. He didn't know how to feel. The smile on that arrogant bastard's face caused him to assume that Sherlock expected John to be happy. Happy to see him. In truth, there was a part of John that was slightly happy to see him. But it was nothing compared to the rage that began to build in his heart like a fire out of control.

This bastard had been alive. For two years, he had been alive.

Memories began. Memories that John hadn't wanted to remember, and he'd done a fairly well job of not remembering for the last two years until now.

John made his way through the crowd of people that had begun around the form of his best friend. "Excuse me please...No, he's my friend. He's my friend!" He knelt down next to Sherlock as someone turned him onto his back, a puddle of blood having formed beneath the once consulting detective. John stared down at him. It was all he could do. He felt numb. He felt cold. This couldn't be happening. This was a dream.

Sherlock couldn't be dead. He just couldn't.

Fingers curled into his palms to make fists as he stared at Sherlock across the darkened room, breath quickening.

Hands grabbed at John, trying to stop him and pry him away but still he reached forward to take Sherlock by the wrist. There was no pulse. Someone moved his hand away and he let them willingly as he leaned backwards. "Oh, god, no..."

Eyes closed painfully. He swallowed hard before opening them again and he stared into those intelligence eyes that pierced through him.

Last edited by John Watson (April 19, 2014 11:11 pm)