I can’t pick which cover I like better for my new #mormor fic on Wattpad!
Which one do you like best?
The current cover is the marble statue.
Check out an RP style Mormor fic! It is partially AU within the canon universe. Follow Sebastian Moran and Jim Moriarty meeting for the first time with their extraabilities.
Sebastian Moran wields great strength, his military generals reference him as a super soldier.
Jim Moriarty and his Silver Tongue is absolute in its persuasiveness but the toll it takes on his body leaves him defenseless. He should hire a body guard as well as a man to do his dirty work… hmm, who should that be?
I can’t pick which cover I like better for my new #mormor fic on Wattpad!
Which one do you like best?
The current cover is the marble statue.
Check out an RP style Mormor fic! It is partially AU within the canon universe. Follow Sebastian Moran and Jim Moriarty meeting for the first time with their extraabilities.
Sebastian Moran wields great strength, his military generals reference him as a super soldier.
Jim Moriarty and his Silver Tongue is absolute in its persuasiveness but the toll it takes on his body leaves him defenseless. He should hire a body guard as well as a man to do his dirty work… hmm, who should that be?
John held the weapon securely in his hand. It was a familiar feeling as his body recalled the many times he wielded the pistol. His hand curved unto the contours of the pistol quite easily. His index finger slid into place gently on top of the trigger. He extended his arms in front of him, holding the pistol away from his body. His arms tensed for a moment before relaxing into a position that was both comfortable and ideal for shooting. He exhaled, allowing his nerves to calm. The target came into focus in front of him, about 50 meters away. He concentrated, aware of everything: the pace at which his own breathing has equalized to, the throbbing in his temple as blood rushed to his brain, the crease of his own brow as he concentrated on the target in front of him, the trickle of sweat that fell down the side of his head. There was this millisecond, before he pulled the trigger wherein the earth itself seemed to wait in baited breath, that one small time frame where everything stopped and the target and John seemed to be the only things in existence.
That was a soldier’s focus.
That was a soldier’s resolve.
John fired at the target, pulling the trigger at regular intervals, firing with the finesse only an experienced marksman could. There was no hesitation as John pulled the trigger time and time again, for he knew that split hesitation in the battlefield meant the different between life and death. It was a monotonous rhythm that allowed him to drown out everything else. He fired until the magazine was empty, with all thirteen bullets hitting their mark. With the rhythm broken he took a sharp intake of breath. In those few short moments where he had to reload his magazine, memories best left in the dark resurfaced from the back of his head.
Sherlock dead and broken on the ground.
Sherlock’s coffin being lowered into the ground and swallowed by the earth.
John. Broken and Alone.
On that road to recovery and moving on there were good days and bad days and today was one of those bad days.
He reloaded the new magazine into the pistol and tried to focus again. He shot, trying to lose himself in something he was familiar with. During bad days he needed something to push the memories away until they could become more bearable to handle. Nothing took hold of his attention like shooting a gun did. It was nowhere near the rush that the battlefield brought. Firing at a stationary target was nothing like taking aim at a real person, posed to take a life. He got lost in the rhythm again. The whole process was almost therapeutic, allowing John to grasp the emotions that were threatening to overwhelm him and tip the equilibrium he struggled to keep. Despite its own drawbacks, it was an effective form of escape. Better than the previous alternative he had considered, at least that was what he told Lestrade when he had asked for his pistol back.
Lestrade had looked at him skeptically, thinking he was about to do something incredibly stupid like try to take his life again. But with a bit of prodding and explaining Lestrade finally conceded to giving back the weapon.
John was jostled from his wandering thoughts, when a bullet strayed far from its intended target. His focus was slipping. John removed the earmuffs he was wearing and retrieved the canvas that was used as a target. Almost all of the bullet marks grazed the inner circles of the bull’s eye. He heard a whistle of appreciation behind him and saw Sebastian Moran watching him with keen interest.
“Good shooting there, doctor” Moran was leaning casually against the wall, with his arms crossed in front of him. John didn’t know how long the man had been there, but got over his initial shock quite easily as the other gave him a lopsided smile.
“That pass your standards then, Colonel Moran?” John said teasingly as he handed the former colonel the target to look over.
“Eighteen months in retirement, yet you still shoot like this? Good job on keeping your skills up to par, soldier.” Moran said, in a commanding voice that he often employed when talking to his subordinates back in the army. The two men laughed at the shared joke between them.
“Well, with all the running around London chasing criminals and masterminds I couldn’t slack off, now could I?” John asked, adopting a tone of seriousness.
“No I expect not.”
“How about a demonstration of those legendary skills, Colonel?” John asked offhandedly, waving towards the new target that had been set in place.
Moran smirked at him. “Is that a challenge, Captain?”. There was a twinkle in his eye.
John raised his hands up feigning surrender. “Hell no, Sebastian. I know you’d beat me hands down.”
Moran made his way towards the target with his own pistol in hand. The ex colonel held the weapon in his hand confidently, treating it as an extension of his own arm. He adjusted his stance and raised the weapon slowly and deliberately. Unlike John, there was no tensing in anticipation of the shot to be fired. Moran was completely relaxed as he found center and took aim at the target set in front of him. Moran slipped into a different character in that split second before he pulled the trigger. It reminded John of their times back in the army. John wasn’t looking at retired soldier now, he was looking at Colonel Moran. There was something akin to murder in the other’s eyes. It was a steely determination that was unrivaled. He wondered just how many men had fallen to the hands of Moran during the war. Without battling an eyelash, Moran finished the magazine. John’s eyes travelled from the pistol in the other’s hands to the target and was unsurprised to see that all of the shots were dead center. He didn’t expect anything less.
Moran lowered the pistol and gave John a small smile.
“So what’s bothering you, John? What’s on your mind? You didn’t come here just to shoot a few rounds.”
There was a pause as John debated on whether to answer the question or not.
“Sherlock.” John supplied before looking away.
Moran nodded in understanding.
“What kind of bloke was this Sherlock?” Moran asked tentatively, waiting for John to answer if he so chose to.
John raised his head to look at Moran properly and see if the other was simply humoring him. He considered Moran for a moment and saw sincerity there and as well as genuine curiosity.
“Let me show you.” John said quietly. Moran simply raised an eyebrow before following John out of the shooting range.
…
Both Sebastian Moran and John Watson stood in the cold chilly air of the London night. They made their way through the sea of tombstones with John in the lead and Moran following. Moran looked curiously around Highgate Cemetery. They stopped in front of a black marble tombstone. The moon was reflected by the smooth black stone and the name shone clearly in the night.
John stepped forward and placed a tender hand on the cool marble.
“Sebastian.” John said softly. He traced the curves of the tombstone with his fingers before looking back to Moran. “Meet Sherlock Holmes.”
“Sherlock” John knelt down in front of the tombstone and addressed his best friend, who was six feet under the ground right below his feet. “I’ve been getting better. I got my job back at the surgery. They’ve been pretty good to me on my first day back. I guess Sarah told everyone to just cut me some slack. I even saw a close friend of Mike and mine back when we were all training at St. Bart’s. There was an opening for a pediatrician. She was how I remembered her. Sweet and kind. I’m sure she was told about the suicide attempt but she was pretty decent about everything. It’s nice being at the surgery again. It’s better than spending all day at the flat because that makes me miss you more.”
Telling Sherlock about his days was a routine that John had fallen into, thought it wasn’t healthy to be talking to the dead he reveled that he had something substantial he could hold on to. A routine that he and Sherlock could share despite the absence of the latter. John was used to Sherlock not responding or paying attention back when he was alive and so this really wasn’t a stretch.
“I’ve got someone to introduce to you. Remember I was telling you that I met this bloke from the army? His name’s Colonel Moran and he was asking about you. So I thought I should introduce you.”
John stood up and patted the tombstone affectionately. “Sherlock, meet Sebastian.”
John half expected the former Colonel to give him a look of disgust or shock for talking to a dead man in such a way but the only thing that John saw was a look of curiosity. Moran’s eyes flickered from John and to the black tombstone. John saw as Moran read the words engraved there mentally in his head. Finally, Moran’s eyes fell upon the fresh roses that were placed beside the tombstone.
John smiled sadly. “I visit him as often as I could. I miss him.”
John looked back at the tombstone. The memories that he tried to push away earlier that day came rushing back all at once. John swayed on the spot for a bit, as the world lost focus. John leaned on the tombstone for support. The name displayed on the tombstone was like a double edged sword. It was the source of his sorrows yet the source of his strength. He clutched at the place above his heart where he had placed Sherlock’s letter in the inner folds of his jacket. He heard the crumpling of paper as his hand clamped unto his chest. The letter had become a constant reminder for John that Sherlock believed in him, that Sherlock believed he could be happy. John had always reasoned that if his best friend thought that John could live a happy life without Sherlock by his side then perhaps it was truly possible. Sherlock was a man of science. He didn’t believe in things without hard facts. Perhaps he had already found a formula of sorts and John only had to discover it for himself. Maybe, his life needn’t have Sherlock Holmes in the equation. He took a deep breath until he had sufficiently calmed down and gotten ahold of his overflowing emotions.
“He sacrificed his life for me, Sebastian.” John said, wanting Moran to understand what Sherlock Holmes meant to him and what kind of man the consulting detective was. John was used to many individuals viewing Sherlock as a fraud and a liar and he had long ago giving up on changing public opinion but if he could convince even just one good person of the truth and what Sherlock Holmes had truly done, then it eased the pain just a bit. Knowing others believed in Sherlock was a comforting thought.
“Running around London with him. Those were the best moments of my life. He may have been the world’s biggest git but there was more to Sherlock Holmes than what the world was allowed to see.” John allowed the memories to come forth now, retelling tales that seemed like a lifetime ago. It was a life that belonged to a different John Watson. A John Watson who was broken yes, but a John Watson who found a Sherlock Holmes to fix him. Moran graciously listened to John as he retold his adventures with Sherlock. John talked until his own voice was hoarse from use. Despite the cool night, a warmth seemed to have descended over them as John described his life with his best friend.
“I was broken, Sebastian. The war broke me.” John admitted somberly. Moran nodded in understanding at that. Men and women that go into the army never return as the same person. They are tainted by the war and violence that they see. What was left was simply a shell of their former selves. It was a long road to recovering what was once theirs. In time, soldiers would begin to readjust to a civilian life but innocence was something that would never come back with time.
There was this sense of loss all soldiers are familiar with. The loss of a life was something that soldiers had to face each and everyday. It was unlike any other. John had thought he was used to the concept of death, being a doctor exposed to such things back when he was still training, but the battlefield was not like that at all. War was a cruel mistress. Life could be taken away so easily, with the pull of a trigger. The battlefield was full of men playing God, men deciding who should live and who should die. The first lesson that all soldiers learned on the field was nothing was ever fair. The best one could do was accept and work with the odds. Some were favored more than others. It was all some sick game and at the end of it, no one emerged as the true winner.
“But he..” He looked at Sherlock again, a soft expression glossing over his features. “He saved me.” The hardest story to tell were the events that led to that faithful day in St. Bart’s. But once John had began telling his story he couldn’t stop. It was all John could do to hold on to his own sanity.
There was an even greater sense of loss that few get to experience, for few were lucky enough to find true love. Something great was gained when true love was found but the losses were even greater. A part of John was lost the day his true love was taken away and it was a loss that not many could even comprehend.
Moran stood quietly, taking all that in. “I understand, John.” Moran said, and somehow John believed him. John knew Moran understood what it meant to lose someone in such a way. “Sherlock was a good man and brave man. He understood the risks. He fought for the good of everyone.. for you..” Moran placed a comforting hand on John’s shoulder.
John nodded, stifling a sob.
The former colonel turned away and gazed at the moon high above them. “I had a similar friend.” Moran admitted quietly. The moon reflected Moran’s eyes, showing a vast emptiness there. An emptiness that John himself felt and struggled with each and everyday. John had to strain his ears to listen. “In many ways he saved me. I owed him a lot but… he was taken away from me.” The latter half of the statement came out as a growl. John stepped back, getting caught off guard at the sudden change in the other’s demeanor. He sensed the anger and hurt rolling of the older man. But just like a switch had been triggered, the man reverted to his old self, or to the man that John had come to know as Sebastian Moran. Moran took hold of his emotions and schooled his face into a mask of indifference. John knew Moran wasn’t about to elaborate further so both of them just stood there in companionable silence.
John realized something that night. They were two men retired from the army trying to find their way. Both of them were two broken men who were simply looking for someone to fix them. John had Sherlock and Moran had his friend but the world had unjustly taken them away. And now, they were left even more broken and alone. It was a cruel joke that the world had played on them.
Despite its cruelty, the world was still kind enough to let John Watson meet Sherlock Holmes. And sometimes that was enough for John to think that his life was worth living.
- Veterans from the British Army: Sebastian Moran and John Watson. -
Save for his therapist, John Watson rarely talked about his time in the army with anyone. It wasn’t because there were a lack of stories, there were plenty of those. John had learned to classify his days in the army as good days and bad days. Towards the end of his service, there were more bad days than good.
It wasn’t due to lack of people who asking either for there were quite plenty of those too. These were curious individuals who deemed being in the army as a rather curious occurrence so different from their ordinary day to day lives. John detested the way in which their eyes lit up when it was mentioned he served in the army. They looked at him with a look of reverence that felt oddly out of place. No one outside of the army could fully understand the life of a solider. No one who has not seen war could fathom the reality that was chaos. To an outsider, they were heroes coming home; brave soldiers who fought for the queen. But John didn’t see it that way at all, not anymore. For John Watson was no hero, in his own mind at least.
Upon entering the army, he had the same romanticized view about serving in the army. Attribute it to his youthful ignorance and his belief that he, one single person, could be an instrument to changing the world. At that time he thought about it as heroic, steadfast and brave but there was a thin line between bravery and stupidity, between reason and unreason and John Watson had tread that line quite often. He’d come to let go of this childish notion, in favor of a more practical ideology: survival. What mattered in the battlefield was living and saving the lives of those around him. Thoughts of heroics and honor took a back side to one single thought: living.
He saw the spark in the eyes of his fellow soldiers, the spark that he himself possessed when he joined the army. But the reality of war eroded one’s will and one’s soul. Often, the spark was lost, giving way to a sort of hallow and hardness that was characteristic of all seasoned solders. Surrounded with so much death and despair, the battlefield took its toll on good men. John learned to harden his heart and detach himself from his duties. He still cared of course, but by caring too much, he realized he could lose his own sanity. The first death was always the hardest but contrary to what others said it didn’t get any easier, one simply learned to numb the pain and dull the senses enough so that functioning became possible.
John encountered many men and women while he served in Afghanistan. Some he easily forgot, their presence not really leaving an image in John’s mind; but there were others who made quite an impression on him. One such person was Sebastian Moran for this person wasn’t a man one could easily forget.
During his early days in the army, he served in an onsite medical headquarters in Afghanistan to receive his training. Despite having months of experience in his previous practice he was still not used to the conditions in which doctors in the army had to work. It was far from the comforts the surgery offered back in London.
It was common practice for British facilities to be inspected by higher ups. John Watson stood at attention, along with the rest of the medical staff. Just starting his out at his duty station, he was still unfamiliar with the higher ranking officers. One particular officer stood out from the rest. He was a serious looking man, taller than the rest, at least six feet in height. His rigorous training was evident in his broad shoulders and muscled build. had a weathered look on him, like he was a man had seen many battles. The way he held himself told John that he was quite a confident man. A man who didn’t doubt his own abilities and capabilities. For a moment, John’s and the man’s eyes met. The man’s eyes told an even deeper story. It was filled with a coldness of a man who was used to death yet it was also filled with a calmness of a man who was used to killing. Looking the dark brown haired man with eyes as black as night brought chills down John’s spine.
“That’s Major Sebastian Moran.” The nurse beside him whispered carefully in his ear.
John Watson was never on to jump to conclusions about people. He preferred to get to know individuals before classifying them into some sort of category for it was in his nature. John would soon forget the man’s name but there was one thought that stuck.
This was a man John Watson didn’t want to cross.
The second time John Watson and Sebastian Moran met, it was a bit more eventful. A few years would pass before their paths crossed once again. John Watson had got himself recently promoted to the rank of captain.
“Lieutenant John Watson” The private had said, saluting the senior medical officer as he escorted a fellow soldier into the examination tent. They were in a middle of a battlefield. John had lost count how many days this particular struggle had been going on.
“Lieutenant Colonel Sebastian Moran, sir! Reporting to the medical unit for treatment for a gunshot wound to the side, sir!” The private bid a salute to the aforementioned Sebastian Moran before taking his leave.
John looked at the patient file he held in his hands, before properly regarding the man who sat on the examination table before him. Something tugged at the back of his mind as he gazed into the blackness of Moran’s eyes. An old memory resurfaced: a memory of a brief meeting. From the get go this man had intrigued John.
Moran had a gun wound to the side yet John knew immediately it was nothing deadly. Despite this fact, John knew the would must have hurt yet Moran did not show any indication of experiencing any pain whatsoever. He held himself like John had seen him all those years ago, confident and cocky like a bullet wound was nothing to worry about.
John flipped through Moran’s medical file. John saw that this man was used to much worse injuries. Once Moran had maneuvered himself on the examination table, John proceeded to cut open the older’s army fatigue shirt in order to have access to the wound. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw various scars covered the man’s body, some appearing more recent than others. Sebastian Moran was a man used to the hardship of war. John put the stethoscope in place in order to listen to Moran’s vitals.
“Breath in and out please.”
Moran did as he was told but there was a bored look on his face. John Watson finished his initial examination before looking at the wound more closely.
“Can you tell me what happened?” John asked, as he gathered the materials he needed in order to extract the bullet and suture the wound shut.
“My team and I were on a reconnaissance mission. We got intel that one of the Al Qaeda hideouts was close by.” Moran’s voice was low and rough.
John began cleaning up the wound and applying some anesthetic to it. Moran didn’t even flinch. The only indication he was in pain was the slight tightening of the jaw and a clenching of the fist.
“We spotted a few Al Qaedas over in the ravine. Decided it was best to follow them from a safe distance.” Moran continued with his tale as John injected some localized anesthetic in the wounded area.
“It will take a few minutes for the anesthesia to take affect.” John said, more from routine rather than necessity. He was quite sure that Moran knew how all this worked by now, if his records were any indication. “Then I’ll get the bullet out and close the wound up. It’s only a flesh wound so I’ll be able to extract it cleanly.”
Moran nodded absentmindedly and continued with his story.
“We followed them, but they knew the area better than we did. We got careless for a moment and dropped our guard down. Next thing we knew, they had doubled back and ambushed us from behind. But these were inexperienced rebels. Most likely new recruits from the looks of them. There were young. Couldn’t even hold a gun right. It was a mistake for them to take my team head on like that.” A cold look descended over Moran’s face as he recounted the events after.
“Shot every one of them down, just on the knees so we could incapacitate them. One of them got a lucky shot in though.” Moran said, indicating his wounded side. Wanted to kill the bastard that did it too.” There was no remorse there as he said it, simply anger. A murderous look crossed Moran’s features for a second before smoothening to that calm collected look once again.
“My team got out of there alright. Got some valuable information too, so everything’s fine, doctor.” Sebastian gave him a soft and lopsided smile that was far from the coldness that John had come to associate with the man. This confused John, and made him think that perhaps he had read Sebastian Moran wrong.
“You ready with that?” Moran pointed at the forceps in John’s hand.
John was holding the forceps just above the wound, but for a moment he was lost in his own thoughts.
“Ah, yes. I’ll just extract the bullet from the wound.” John busied himself with the wound, pushing thoughts of Moran’s character from his mind. He instructed the Lieutenant Colonel to lie down in the table so John could extract the bullet. Moran laid down on the table, with his wounded side to John. John concentrated and was able to extracted the bullet easily enough. Bullet wounds were common in the army and it was part of day to day operations, with some being worse than others. John started sewing back the skin after he cleaned up the wound again. Moran looked curiously as he was sewn back together.
After finishing the last stich, John wiped the wound of any blood and proceeded to cleaning himself up, wiping his own bloodied hands with a wet towel. “The bullet didn’t hit any vital organs. You’ll be in top shape after a few days of taking it easy.” John said, despite the fact that John knew Moran was not the type of man to take it easy. He handed Moran some pills along with instructions on when to clean the medicine and how to clean the wound.
“Thanks.” Moran said.
John got up and motioned to help Moran from the table, but Moran waved him off.
“It’s fine Doctor Watson.“
John saluted as Moran exited the tent. Despite his injury, Moran still held himself quite assuredly. John remembered thinking this was superior he’d be more than willing to follow to war.
Their third meeting happened a few more years after, during greater turmoil. John’s regiment, the fifth Northumberland Fusiliers,had been in bad shape. They radioed for back up and Moran’s regiment came in to help.
Moran rode in with his team, with such steely determination. The war had not been favorable to Moran, in fact it seemed hardened him. If that was even possible. By this time John had heard a few stories about this Colonel Moran. His prowess as a marksman was well known in the British Army. John heard whispers that his skill with the sniper was perhaps second to none.
“Captain John Watson? What’s the situation?” Moran had addressed him. John saluted and immediately told Moran about the Al Qaeda s that had holed themselves in a the warehouse across from where they were.
“We’ve been at a stand off for hours. They retreated to the warehouse after dealing quite some damage to our regiment.” John waved towards his own team. He did his best to patch everyone up but he needed to get them proper help soon enough.
“Very well.” Moran had said before barking several orders to his own subordinates. The Moran in the battlefield was quite different from the Moran John had previously encountered. This man was a “no nonsense” kind of man. The confident way in which he held himself obviously came from the years of experience he held under his belt. Moran’s men didn’t miss a beat and followed orders without question. It was beyond a superior subordinate relationship. There was the utmost respect there. Moran’s subordinates were quite sure of their superior’s skills and for the first time, John saw firsthand the fabled skills of Moran.
Moran held the sniper confidently in his hand, surveying his targets through the scope. In what seemed like well practiced motions, he took a target out from an impossible distance. Wide eyed, John had looked around, his surprise mirrored in his own team’s faces. Moran’s team didn’t seem surprised at all. Like amazing feats like that were a regular thing, and perhaps they were.
With Moran’s help they were able to take the rebels down with little casualties on their own side. John Watson looked back to his and Moran’s first meeting all those years ago. He was right to think that Sebastian Moran wasn’t a man he would like to cross. He was glad that Moran was on their side, he didn’t favor the bloke on the other end of Sebastian’s scope.
Their last meeting was perhaps the most memorable to John. It was after the time John was forced to kill one of his own regiment, an army member turned spy for the Al Qaeda.
“John Watson.” John turned around to face none other than Sebastian Moran. John had been surveying the destruction through the window of the building that served as one of the medical headquarters.
“Colonel Moran, sir!” John had stood on attention, as was demanded of a subordinate to his superior.
“At ease, soldier.”
“I heard about what happened.” Moran added.
John noticed that Moran’s arm was in a sling. It was most probable he had received treatment and heard about what happened from one of the nurses.
John nodded, looking away. He looked at his own hands. Hands which have both saved and taken lives, be it in the operating table or on the field. Now he had the blood of another countryman in his hands, one he had shot in cold blood.
“Sometimes you can do nothing but kill.” Moran said, looking John squarely in the eyes. He stared into those black eyes once again; eyes that held a depth to it that only those who have seen death could even comprehend.
Something about the way it was said bothered John. It wasn’t in the same hushed and empathetic tones that most used around him when they talked of the incident. It was spoken as if killing was a part of everyday life. And in fact, it was a reality that surround them already, a reality that John couldn’t disregard. Killing had been part of their lives, their lives were tainted by blood, very much how the land around them was littered by the corpses of friends and foes alike.
John heaved a heavy sigh, his years in the army catching up with him now.
It was then that John looked in the mirror and realized the spark that had once been present in his eyes was now lost to the horrors of the war.
“You’re right.” John said quietly.
That was the last time he had seen Sebastian Moran in the army. He heard that Moran retired soon after and John did not hear of the man again until a few days ago when he quite literally stumbled into Moran. Two years had passed since he last saw Moran. That meeting at Bart’s was the reason why he now found himself with his former senior officer in a quaint café near Baker Street. Moran had said he rarely saw anyone from the old days and would have wanted to have a cuppa, at least, just to catch up. At first John didn’t know what to feel about a fellow soldier suddenly showing up while he was trying to reintegrate himself to civilian society. There was a reason John avoided veteran reunions and anything of the like. He feared that the appearance of Moran would trigger even worse nightmares and tremors for this was a physical manifestation of his former life as a soldier, a life he was trying to push to the back of his mind. Then, he realized if there was someone who could truly understand the difficulties of adjusting and moving on with one’s life it would be Moran.
“Colonel Moran.” John had said earlier, when Moran had approached his table. A salute accompanied his stance. Moran gave him a lopsided smile.
“At ease solder.” Moran replied, giving the customary reply before sitting down across John.
“Colonel Moran, haven’t heard that title in awhile.” Moran’s eyes glazed over a moment as he recalled past events that had come with the title of Colonel. Shaking his head, he surveyed John very much like how superiors looked at subordinates when it was uniform inspection day.
“Retirement has been kind to you, John Watson.“
John smiled at the comment. He may not have been training like he did in the army, but running around London with Sherlock allowed John to maintain a physically fit body. Thoughts of Sherlock flooded his mind. John closed his eyes and willed the images to retreat to the back of his mind where he had decidedly stored them away.
Moran looked at John curiously, perhaps noticing the internal struggle going on in the soldier’s mind.
“Yeah. I could say the same to you.” John remarked, seeing that Moran’s muscular physique was still in good shape, very much how he had looked during his days as a colonel. “What have you been up to all these years? Last I heard you had retired.”
“Just wanted a change of scenery and all. You know how draining life in the army can get.” Moran said, not really elaborating on the context of his retirement. “I found a few odd jobs here and there. Eventually I found an employer in need of a body guard. Did that for a year or so till a few months ago.” There was a slight pause, before Moran continued. Perhaps it was John’s imagination but there was a flash of anger there. John figured his relationship with his former employer may not have ended well. “Traveled around for awhile after, and now I’m back in London. Heard you we around here. didn’t know where though. I was on my way to my veteran’s check up at Bart’s, didn’t realize I would bump into you there.”
“You’ve been busy.” John said.
“Yeah, I’ve been around places.” Moran replied, giving another of his crooked smiles. John smiled back.
“How about you? I heard you were shot. What happened?”
John couldn’t keep track how many times he heard to question ‘What happened?’. He had never told this story before in detail, not to Lestrade or Sherlock. But he felt Moran would understand, as only fellow solders would. And so for the first time, he told his story.
“That was eighteen months ago now.” John said, absently rubbing his shoulder. Some days, like on cold days, his shoulder would bother him severely and John would recall the events of this day most vividly.
“I was separated from my regiment. I fell behind because I was treating an injured comrade.” His voice seemed detached from himself somehow, like he was hearing it through a long and narrow tunnel. The café swam before his eyes and before he knew it he was transported the events of eighteen months ago.
It was a hot afternoon like any other in Afghanistan. John was in one of the neighboring towns. He asked his regiment to leave him behind so that he could nurse a fellow soldier. The solder had sustained a life threatening would to the side and John suspected there was internal bleeding too. Transporting him through the jeep would jog the would to much and cause him to bleed out, so John had radioed for a airlift instead. He was doing everything he could to stop the bleeding and to stabilize his condition.
The town had been deemed safe and outside of rebel influence so John had no qualms about being left behind but suddenly the town was assaulted by rebels. Civilians were being taken hostage, John tried to fight them off but he was severely outnumbered. He tried to take out as many as he could and protect the civilians but there was only so much one man could do. The next thing he knew a gun was pointed at him and his comrade.
“Leave him alone!” John had screamed. Painfully aware of the barrel of the gun pointed in his direction. “He’s already injured.” War was merciless even to the injured. A shot was fired and the next thing he knew his patient was dead. He was restrained by two burly men as the man who appeared to be the head rebel pointed a rifle at him.
Please Got Let me Live. John thought feverishly. His throat dried up and his breath hitched is his chest. The man with the gun was asking him for information about the locations and numbers of the army. John was of course privy to this information, but his sense of duty outweighed his own safety. He knew more people would die if he gave this information. John remained stubbornly silent.
Another shot rang through the air, this time John felt a burning sensation on his shoulder. For the first time in his life, John Watson was shot. No mater how many bullet wounds he had treated or books he had read about it and the pains the patient experienced, nothing could have prepared him for the pain that came. The bullet had gone straight through the bone and embedded itself there, fracturing the bone in the process. A blood curdling scream reached John’s ears, it took a moment for John to realize that he was the one making that noise. His vision swam, again the rifle was pointed at him, this time directly at his head. Once again he was asked for information. It was at that moment John knew he was facing death. He was going to die in this god forsaken place, his body broken and bloodied like his fallen comrade’s.
Coming to terms with death wasn’t an easy thing to do. But in that one moment where John had inhaled, thinking that it was his last breath, he had faced the fact that he would not live to see tomorrow. He closed his eyes. It was a second that seemed to extend to minutes and hours even, a moment where the sounds of the world seemed to ebb away. What remained was the slow beating of his heart.
One Beat.
Two Beats.
Three Beats.
He heard the gunshot, the shot that supposedly should have ended his life. But he realized something was wrong. He realized his own heart was still beating in his chest and there was no additional pain. His heart returned to it’s normal place, he opened his eyes and everything seemed to go in fast forward. The rebel who had a rifle to his head moments before was now sprawled on the ground, bloodied and dead. British forces started pouring into the town and restraining the rebels. John felt his knees buckle underneath him as he savored each breath he took.
I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m alive.
John looked over his fallen comrade. The blank stare he saw there haunted his dreams ever since.
John sighed as he finished telling his story, a weight seemed to be lifted from his shoulders as he recounted what he thought were his last moments. He knew Sebastian Moran understood what those moments felt like. Moran would also understand the guilt that had been plaguing John for moths, nevertheless he still had to ask.
“Do they haunt your dreams too? The people you’ve killed.” John asked softly. John knew the answer he desperately wanted to hear. He wanted to know that it wasn’t just him that got haunted with images of the past, that he wasn’t the only one broken by the war.
“Yes. Every night.” Moran said quietly. John looked into Moran’s black eyes and saw nothing but the truth there. Perhaps for the first time in months, John was able to breath a bit easier. John thought he finally found someone who he could talk to.
“Been having a rough time, ever since I got discharged. Then I met Sherlock Holmes. H-he…” John bit his lip, not quite sure if Moran had heard of the consulting detective and the stories about him being a fraud. But Moran only gave him a blank stare. His and Sherlock’s first meeting came to mind and again. It was when he met Sherlock that he began again began to believe that one person could change the world. That belief remained until the moment Sherlock Holmes died. A familiar pain erupted in John’s chest. John placed a hand on his chest, right above his heart and right where Sherlock’s letter was tucked in his coat pocket. John tried to claw at his chest and ease the pain. But it was pointless. He wasn’t ready to talk about Sherlock.
“He was a good man.” John said quietly. Not able to elaborate any further.
“Sounds like you cared about this bloke a lot.” Moran said sincerely.
“I’ll be around London for awhile, if you want a cuppa. Seems like you have quite a story to tell me.” Moran extended a hand to John.
John took the hand in his own and shook it firmly. “It was nice seeing you again Colonel Moran.”
“Call me Sebastian, John.” Moran said, with a small smile tugging at his lips. He did a small salute before walking away. John lowered the hand he had raised in responding salute and watched Moran’s retreating figure.
It seemed John Watson had found a friend in Sebastian Moran.
It was a time the whole world had waited for in bated breath. It was a time when time seemed to stop and everything looked upon the two men who stood on the landing of 221B Baker street. All eyes were on them. Two friends, torn apart by violence, brought together by one final act of killing.
“May I come inside?”
Sherlock stood there waiting for John to answer, waiting for the resolution of the story. Waiting for the happy ending that most humans sought after. The whole world seemed to hold its breath. Nothing stirred and nothing existed except these two individuals right here. John reached towards Sherlock’s own face, wanting to feel the warmth of the other for himself. In those few moments when the face of Sherlock swam in his vision as tears glistened in his brown eyes, John felt relief wash over him. Months of waiting had come to a close and finally Sherlock had come home. He placed a gentle had on Sherlock’s cheeks, his fingertips tingling at the unfamiliar and sought after sensation. Looking into Sherlock’s blue eyes, something snapped within him at that moment.
The spell that had descended upon them shattered as the calm was broken. Months of pent up emotions and hardships surfaced in John’s mind. Before he realized what was happening John’s left fist had swung towards Sherlock. The other didn’t even move and accepted the blow as it came. Sherlock staggered backward, nursing the now forming bruise.
“You git!”
John Watson rushed at Sherlock, but rather than another punch, the older wrap his arms around the younger. The tears streaked down his face, and the sobs came forth from him. It was like a dam that had broken. A dam that had been constructed through months of grieving and mourning now gave way for the emotions and sentiments to finally spill over.
John Watson beat at Sherlock’s chest, his clenched fists slamming into the other, not all that forcefully. The will to fight had gone out of John Watson.
“Sherlock. You were dead! I saw you jump. I mourned you.. I called your name again and again. I begged you to come back.”
Tremors shook through his body as he collapsed unto the consulting detective. Sherlock slowly wrapped his arms around the doctor and said the three words that managed to reach John’s heart.
“I’m here now.” Sherlock said quietly.
John looked up at black haired man who had haunted his dreams so often. Whose face and whose voice had always consumed his thoughts. Long ago, Sherlock became the reason for John’s everyday and perhaps it could be like that again. Finally they would be able to go back to the routine that was theirs and theirs alone. Things would go back to the way they once were.
Following what should have been, John Watson would have said the very thing that Sherlock had been waiting for all this time:
“Welcome Home.” John said softly, for only Sherlock to hear.
But that wasn’t what happened. Not at all. In a world of fantasy and fiction, perhaps that could have transpired but this isn’t fantasy or some game of pretend. This was reality. A reality that John Watson could not escape. You see, things could not easily go back to the way they once were. After everything that had transpired, the road that lead towards their past life was now barred by a wall. A brick was carefully placed there each day that passed after Sherlock’s death, sealing the past most effectively. Not even Sherlock himself was able to tear down that wall. What’s more, John Watson had already found himself on a completely different path. This was the road towards the future he, at one point, was resigned to having. What started out as John’s way of complying to Sherlock’s wish of him to be happy turned out to be something he truly wanted for himself as well. John wanted a future, John wanted a family and so he found himself walking down that path with a woman who taught him it was okay to love again. This woman named Helen tore down the walls around his heart and became a constant presence in his life. And so, instead of the heartfelt reunion that the whole world had been waiting for, another parting of the ways was witnessed, perhaps even more terrible than the last.
Snow fell heavily from the night sky, a cold had descended all over London but the coldness that John Watson now felt inside him had nothing to do with that. The still and calm London night was a complete contrast to the storm that raged within the retired army doctor. John turned away from the window, putting the sea of whiteness that was London behind him. He gazed around the familiar flat. It wasn’t 221B. For one, it had a more feminine touch to it. There were lace trimmed placemats and delicate pottery. There were one of a kind paintings decorating the walls of the flat. His favorite one hung over the fireplace. It was a depiction of the exact scenery John had been viewing moments before. Instead of the snowy expanse, the whole city could be seen in all its glory. But through the lens of a painter, the city came forth in a different perspective and light. There was hope that beauty could lie in even a harsh city like London. John tore his eyes away from the painting and looked around. It had a couch, but it John’s opinion it wasn’t as comfortable as the one in 221B. There were no armchairs that sat beside the fire. There was no skull on the mantelpiece. Perhaps, the only thing in common with 221B was the vast array of medical books that the shelves housed. The air was tinged with the small of lilacs. All was empty and quiet in the flat too, which John found very unsettling. The disquiet put him further on edge and his mind could do nothing but go back to the what followed after his parting of the ways with the now resurrected Sherlock Holmes.
*
John had run until he couldn’t ignore the pain in his chest anymore. The cold air shot through his system like a thousand tiny pinpricks assaulting his senses. On and on he went until his legs felt like lead and sweat glistened on his forehead despite the low temperature that came with the winter. John finally stopped, doubling over and placing his hands on his knees. He tried to get his breath back, yet he relished the pain that came with the fatigue. Finally his breathes came much slower and he was able to look up and take in his surroundings. He found himself in the park, more specifically the playground. He had spent a lot of lonely afternoons wandering around this part of London, and was therefore not surprised that his legs had subconsciously carried him here.
The snow was pristine and undisturbed. That was to be expected for the kids were with their families now, spending their Christmases around the dinner table, or sitting excitedly by the tree waiting for the clock to strike twelve. John crossed the playground towards the pair of swings that stood at the center. The swing creaked under his weight as he sat down. He swayed back and forth, using his legs to propel the motion. John didn’t know how long he sat there, staring at the night sky. The adrenalin slowly receded from his system. In its place was the anger that bubbled to the surface once again. Images of Sherlock Holmes framed in the doorway entered his mind, try as he might he couldn’t push it away. Sherlock coming back had been his most fervent wish for so long. Until John decided to move on that is.
John huffed in annoyance, muttering obscenities under his breath. It was as if his whole world had been turned upside down once again. It was all one big elaborate lie. Consequently, a play on his very emotions. John now didn’t know what to believe in and couldn’t even fathom the flurry of emotions that raged inside him. Were his feelings about Sherlock true, or was it just induced by the shock of supposedly losing him? When Sherlock didn’t even die in the first place, how could he know if what he felt was genuine at all?
John didn’t even look up when he heard footsteps behind him, disturbing the gravel and snow on the ground. He felt the newcomer pause in his advancements. John’s neck prickled under the penetrating gaze of the stranger.
“Did you know?” The question came out more harsher then he intended. Yet, John Watson was beyond manners now. He was like a wounded animal, cornered and desperate.
“No.” The gruff response of Greg Lestrade came back. The response was simple yet it told tomes about the other’s situation. John turned his head to see Lestrade walk towards him and take the swing beside him. He was pale and his eyes were haunted by a pain that John knew quite well. It was obvious something was plaguing his mind. The detective inspector sighed and pulled out a box of cigarettes from his pocket with an accompanying lighter. He shook the box against his palm until a stick fell out. With well practiced motions he placed it on his lips and lit it with a flick of his lighter. The tension on his face eased a bit as the nicotine wove its way into his system. He extended the box to John, silently asking him if he wanted one. For the first time in years John helped himself to a stick. The roll between his forefinger and middle finger felt like he was welcoming an old friend back home. He placed it in his mouth and leaned forward for Lestrade to light it. After a sharp intake of breath and exhale later, John felt a bit better. The tremors that shook his body lessened to a certain degree.
“I left Mycroft.” Lestrade said. There was sadness and anger there. Two emotions that John was very familiar with and could easily distinguish.
“He knew.” John replied. It wasn’t a question. John already had a deeply rooted anger against the older of the Holmes brothers. He had never forgiven Mycroft for killing Sherlock Holmes, and now to find out that the man was involved in this elaborate hoax. It did nothing to improve his standing in John’s eyes.
Lestrade nodded as his brows furrowed in frustration. It wasn’t everyday you see the detective inspector in such an emotional state. But one could hardly fault him. He had just left the man he once loved, very much like what John did too.
“I received a call about a gunshot near The Abbey pub. We were already shorthanded at the Yard so I decided to go alone and investigate. When I got there, Mycroft was there…”
“Mycroft?”
Lestrade nodded, pausing for a moment before continuing. He looked at John and there eyes locked on each other’s. “He was holding a gun. Standing over a body in the alley. I asked him what the hell he was doing there but he wouldn’t answer me at first. I rushed at the body to see who it was Mycroft had shot. It was…” Lestrade faltered at this moment. John urged him to continue.
“Sebastian Moran.” Lestrade finished, turning away from John.
“S-sebastian? Sebastian’s dead?! Mycroft shot Sebastian? Why?!” The hysteria in John’s voice was very much evident now. This night was continuing to spiral downward as the world that he once knew slowly became an unholy land where nothing made any sense.
“Imagine my confusion at finding Mycroft at a crime scene like that.” Lestrade was having trouble hiding his own anger at the situation they were in. “At first I thought it was some secret operation by the government of some sort. Maybe Sebastian got into some spot of trouble. The truth, though, was further from anything I ever expected it to be.”
Lestrade paused. “Did Sherlock tell you anything?”
John shook his head. “I didn’t give him the chance to explain. I don’t know. I was just….”
“Angry?” Lestrade supplied.
John nodded.
Lestrade fished an envelope from his coat and handed it to John. He opened the envelope and numerous files spilled on his lap. On top of the pile was Sebastian Moran’s file. The picture placed there wasn’t the Sebastian he knew. The image before him was of a cold hearted killer. Bottomless black eyes that reflected nothing but death. He scanned the file and his eyes halted on one line:
Assassin. Employed under Consulting Criminal Jim Moriarty.
John’s breath caught in his chest. He closed his eyes, willing to wake up from this hellish nightmare. The man who had, in many ways, rescued him from the pain was nothing more than an illusion. The man he considered a best friend was all but a trick of the mind. In many ways he had given a lot of trust in the Sebastian Moran he knew. John didn’t easily trust people, nor did he share his problems with anyone. With Moran it was different. It was so much easier. Life became a lot better. To find out all of that were simply lies was devastating to say the least.
“He wanted to kill me?” John’s voice was soft and scared.
Lestrade nodded.
“I guess this would make more sense when I start from the beginning. Sherlock faked his death. With the help of Molly.” Lestrade spat the name. John’s eyes widened when he heard it. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He felt his sanity slowly being chipped away with each revelation he heard.
“Molly knew…” First there was disbelief. Then came the anger. He remembered all those times when Molly had comforted him and then those times when she had wanted to say something but thought better of it. This was the big secret.
“So did Mycroft. The both of them were in on it all this time. While the rest of us made a fool of ourselves mourning his loss. They played the both of us as idiots.” Lestrade said. The words were harsh but it was the truth. The phrase the truth hurts didn’t even begin the describe the situation.
“According to Mycroft, after he faked his death, Sherlock hunted down Moriarty’s men. The last of Moriarty’s men was – “
“Sebastian.” John finished for him. Knowing the man could have killed him at any moment was not a welcoming notion, but he couldn’t help think he had lost a friend. Or perhaps, his friend never existed in the first place. John shuddered as he was able to fully comprehend the situation. He had thought Moriarty to be gone, but even from beyond the grave he was still able to destroy their lives.
“You’re taking this better than I expected.” Lestrade said. There was no cocky smile or twinkle of the eye here. It was a statement of fact.
John scoffed. “I punched the damn git and left him standing there in the damn cold.” He couldn’t even bear saying the name Sherlock now. The name only brought him pain.
John stood up, the files spilling on the snow topped ground but he paid them no mind. He started to pace around, leaving crisscrossing footprints in the snow. He threw his cigarette in the thicket, not even bothering to stomp it out.
“Lies! All Lies…” John’s breath hitched in his chest. There was a lot of anger inside John Watson. Anger at Moriarty for tearing their lives apart, anger at Mycroft for playing this idiotic game, anger at Molly for making him a fool, anger at Sherlock Holmes for leaving and playing with his heart.
John’s breathing was heavy as he shouted frustratingly into the heavens. He sat unceremoniously into the ground covered snow and placed his head in his hands. He carded his hands through his hair, wishing that everything was just a bad dream.
Lestrade gazed at the same stars John was looking at moments before. They twinkled sadly above them. “I thought I knew Mycroft. I thought he had allowed me to see a side of himself that no one had the privilege of seeing. Behind the titles and behind the power, Mycroft Holmes was just a man. A man who just needed someone to understand who he was and stand by him. I thought I was that man. I don’t even know anymore if that was the real Mycroft Holmes or if it was just part of this game he played with the rest of us.” It was tinged with bitterness but sadness as well. John wasn’t the only one who lost something tonight.
John listened, for the first time his mind wandering from his own predicament and thinking about something else: the relationship of Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade. As far as John knew, Mycroft didn’t have girlfriends or anything of the sort. Mycroft had colleagues and connections, not friends. Lestrade, it seemed, was the exception. When John found out about Lestrade and Mycroft, he had doubted the older Holmes was capable of emotions such as love but he reasoned it was his own personal biases speaking. Lestrade obviously saw something in the man and that was good enough for John. It looked as if they complimented each other in many ways. He may not be privy to their interactions but he knew Lestrade was happy. In very much the same way that lies had torn apart Mycroft and Lestrade, the lies were destroying what John and Sherlock had.
Lestrade got up and dropped his cigarette, before stomping it out with the sole of his trainer. He walked to where John was and placed a hand on his shoulders.
“Let’s get you home.”
“I don’t know where home is.” John replied sadly.
Home was once 221B, where he and his best friend spent their days together and lived the routine that was their own. Home was once 221B, where the memories he held dear made themselves present in John’s everydays. Home was once 221B, where he would wait for the day when Sherlock would finally come back to him. Home was once 221B, the place where he confined himself and willed the pains of the world to go away. Home was once 221B, his own respite. Home was once 221B, where he thought he could live his happily ever after with the woman he had given his heart to.
John shook his head. “I won’t go back there. I don’t want to see him. He never died so it’s still his flat.” John stared at the white snow underneath him. “I was going to ask her to move in with me Greg. I was going to ask her tonight. I prepared his old room and everything. I fixed up the flat. I was finally able to put all his things in the attic. I was finally able to move on without looking back. And then this happens.” Tears silently rolled down his face. John was past pretending to be strong. He was now nothing but a broken man. Broken not by Moriarty or by Mycroft but by Sherlock Holmes.
After all the anger had been spent what was left was an emptiness that could only be described as being lost. He looked up at Greg Lestrade and the expression on his face was quite clear. ‘I don’t know where to go from here. I don’t know what to do.’
Lestrade bowed his head. “I don’t know too, John. I don’t know.” For the first time, Lestrade didn’t have all the answers. He didn’t have any advice to offer to John Watson for he himself was as lost and equally alone. The only thing he could give was a helping hand.
“Let’s go to my flat for now. Helen’s still at her shift now right? I’ll call her and tell her to pick you up there.”
John could only nod, as what he felt was beyond words now. He allowed the detective inspector to carry half his weight as they made their way towards the street. Lestrade hailed a cab and helped John inside. John watched as the city passed by him in a blur of lights. He placed his forehead on the cool window and stared unseeingly outside.
They arrived at flat. The exhaustion caused by the night’s events had finally taken its toll on John’s body. He collapsed on the couch, burying himself in the cushions. Lestrade made as if to leave but before he could he felt a tug on his coat. John’s had had shot up and taken ahold of him.
“Please.” John said quietly.
Lestrade sat beside John and held him close. It was nothing romantic of course. They were brothers after all, brothers whom the world has wronged in very much the same way. Lestrade held John, like he had done all those months ago. He felt the subtle tremors that shook through the other’s body as the walls John had put up all those months had finally broken down. The presence of another human being was a comfort to the both of them. The world has suddenly become a hostile place and this familiar feeling of comfort would help them tide through the night.
From somewhere in the flat a clock chimed, twelve rings to signify the coming of Christmas morning. A Christmas miracle had occurred but it brought nothing but pain to all.
“Happy Christmas, John.” Lestrade whispered.
John couldn’t even bring himself to reply, so he simply nodded. The festiveness of the holidays had drained out of him. All that was left was a dull aching.
When the clock had chimed one, a knock came on the door. Lestrade stood up and made his way towards the door. Unsurprisingly, Helen was on the other side, holding a bag of presents in her hand. She smiled sadly at Lestrade before looking at the sleeping figure of John Watson.
“He just fell asleep. Should I wake him for you?” Lestrade massaged the crick that had formed on his neck.
Helen shook her head, stepping inside. The tiredness from her face faded as she touched John’s face. It was replaced by a look that could only be described as love. She gently traced the contours of John’s face with her delicate hands. John stirred. She stopped and leaned closer to hear what he was whispering.
“Sh-sherlock … ”
Helen stepped back, the sad look crossing her features once again.
“I’ve been to see him.”
Lestrade looked up at that. “You saw Sherlock?”
Helen nodded stiffly. “He had a bruise on his face. Probably, John had punched him. Sherlock was waiting there on the porch of 221B.” She glanced at John. “Waiting for him to come back I think.”
Helen sighed and sat cross-legged on the floor as she stroked John’s hand. “And he was doing so well too. Now that Sherlock’s back. I don’t know what the state of his mind would be.”
Both of them knew fully well what John had gone through. Insanity was but a step away for John. John’s suicide attempt was still fresh in their minds.
…
John woke up on Christmas morning to find Helen asleep on the living room floor still holding his hand. Despite having a few hours of sleep, he still felt the fatigue of last night. It took a moment for him to recall what had happened transpired only a few hours before. It felt like a rather awful nightmare.
Dream?
No.
Real.
The confusion that initially filled his mind was replaced with anger and discontentment. John sighed and tried to will the pains away. He looked at Helen, sleeping soundly with her head resting near his own. In her other hand was the blue box that contained the key to 221B that he was supposed to give her. This wasn’t how he wanted the both of them to spend Christmas. He had planned a romantic evening for the both of them. It was nothing too extravagant, just dinner and a quite night together, ending with him asking her to move in. His dinner preparations had gone to waste. He had finally finished his preparations in Sherlock’s room. He had wanted to give her a room of her own. He wanted that future with her. The key symbolized that future, that happiness he had always tried to chase after.
The woman stirred as John sat up and let go of her hand. She followed his gaze and saw he was staring at the box.
Helen smiled sadly at him and opened the box.
“You wanted me to move in with you.”
“I still want-“ She cut him off as she placed a tender finger on his lips. “Are you sure John?”
Asking her to move in with him was one of the surest decisions that John had ever made in his life, but after last night’s events he found himself thrust into doubt once again. What he thought of as truth was nothing more than illusions. The dilemma must have been evident on his face for Helen leaned in closer and placed a chaste kiss on John’s forehead. It was a comforting gesture.
“I don’t want to go back there.” John admitted. John had never felt so vulnerable in his life than he did now. She held him close and again, the tears fell and his body shook. His world had shattered and she knew it. John’s world once revolved around Sherlock Holmes, a shining sun in the darkness and loneliness of the place called life. When the sun disappeared, John was thrown back into the darkness with nothing to gravitate towards. Nothing could compare to the sun that once was. Helen was but a moon, a mere reflection of the sun.
Now, the sun had returned but it was too late. John had been lost in the darkness, tethered to the moon, by the merest of threads.
“I’m here, John.” John nodded at that. John now doubted a lot of things, but there was one thing he was sure of, and it was the woman that now stood in front of him. He looked into her green eyes and found the solace he had always sought. He caressed her face and tucked a stray lock behind her ear. Helen slid into the sofa with John. And silently, they watched as London life unfolded before them through the window of Gregory Lestrade’s flat. It was something very simple, yet to John it meant the world. Her presence was a foothold in the ever changing world.
John thoughts wandered to Sherlock, thinking of the tall black haired man framed in the doorway of 221B Baker Street. He wasn’t the Sherlock he remembered, yet he knew it was his Sherlock. Not some hoax nor some trick. The real consulting detective had truly come back from the dead. He remembered the way in which Sherlock had said his name. He never thought he would hear his name being called in such a way again.
“John.”Sherlock’s deep voice had always haunted his dreams and now he could hear his real voice again. He didn’t have to settle for recordings or vague memories.
“John.”
John looked up at Helen, who was watching him with concern in her deep green eyes.
“I saw Sherlock last night.” John nodded. He had assumed as much, seeing she had the key with her. “He wanted me to give you these.”
She fished out two objects from her coat pocket. The first was one he recognized immediately. It was his phone, his coping mechanism for eighteen long months. It was his last connection to Sherlock Holmes. Despite knowing, that his text message would remain unanswered he continued to send them anyway. The other object was a phone he wasn’t familiar with.
Confusion crossed John’s features as he took both objects in his hands. He pocketed his own phone and examined the other. It didn’t take too long to realize whose phone it was.
It was Sherlock’s.
John stared unblinkingly at the phone. Sherlock didn’t do anything for absolutely no reason so it was safe to assume there was something inside the phone that was meant for his eyes but after last night’s events he wasn’t sure he could handle another revelation of sorts. He took a deep breath. There was nothing else he could find out that could tear his world apart in the same way that Sherlock’s return had.
He was wrong.
He saw the hundreds of text messages he had been sending Sherlock, sitting there inside the phone. Eighteen long months of suffering and of pain outlined for all too see. John’s heart ached as he looked through his own messages. Sending text messages to Sherlock became a part of his new routine. At the time, he believed Sherlock would never see the messages nor reply to them but he continued to send them anyway. It was a coping mechanism that was his own. The texts made it easier to pretend that Sherlock would come back home, that was why he held unto that hope. He saw his own descent into depression as the texts became more desperate. Some texts he remembered more than others. Many of them were pleas to come home, pleas that remained unanswered until now. Yet even more of them were confessions about his own emotions that he would have never been able to tell Sherlock face to face. He bore out his heart and soul into those text messages. Finding out that Sherlock had been privy to these inner thoughts from the start wasn’t something he could easily digest nor accept. The anger did not come. Simply confusion. John had gotten another of his heart’s desires: for Sherlock to see the messages that John had sent him. Yet with the realization came the question: why didn’t he answer me? He knew yet he didn’t do anything. John Watson felt betrayed. There was nothing else that could describe the well of emotions inside him at this moment. To him, it seemed as if the whole world was in on the joke. A joke at the expense of himself. He had spent the better half of the past eighteen months mourning a man who wasn’t quite so dead.
The phone held even more secrets. He saw the text exchanges between Mycroft and Sherlock. It was evident that Mycoft was deeply involved and aware of all of Sherlock’s activities. The grieving brother act was nothing but that: an act. John also saw the short exchanges between Sebastian and Sherlock. John paled as he read those particular messages. It had all been a game. John felt like a pawn in the grander scheme of things, being tossed around and played with. It only served to fuel the anger that continued to burn within him.
Yet, the most terrible secret of all came in the form of Sherlock’s unsent text messages to John. These were texts never sent to him. They were simply kept there, like a tethered lifeline. Eighteen months worth of messages stared back at him in all its glory. His heart clenched as he saw his own name again and again. John couldn’t believe it. The emotion in the texts wasn’t something he could easily identify with Sherlock. Sherlock was a man who dismissed sentiment and anything of the sort as trivial and not worthy of his time, yet here were messages that bore Sherlock’s heart and soul; similar to what John Watson himself had done. Perhaps death, or in Sherlock’s case, faking his death had afforded Sherlock a change in perspective. In the same way that John coped with his own text messages, Sherlock had done the same thing. He felt tears fall roll down his face as he read through the messages and took the journey of the last eighteen months from Sherlock’s own eyes. He spent the whole of Christmas day going through Sherlock’s text messages. It was like a drug to John. He wasn’t foreign to addiction. He became so engrossed in the messages and the stories they told him. It can be likened to reading a good book. John couldn’t bring himself to stop reading until he came to the resolution of the story. It wasn’t a fanciful romantic novel though, to John, the story that unfolded before his eyes could be compared to only one thing: a tragedy. A sort of hunger had come over him as he read through the texts. He saw that Sherlock had gone through his own suffering as well. It was a grotesque parallelism to John’s own torment. He expected to feel a sense of victory in finding out that Sherlock had suffered as he did but instead of victory, he felt defeat. It was a hollowness coupled with regret. The moon had shone through the window by the time John had set down Sherlock’s phone. He kept thinking about how the consulting detective’s slender hands had once held the phone, texting one message after another. John’s heart wasn’t filled with hopefulness or anything of that sort. The best and perhaps most hurtful revelation that came with his journey back in time was the fact that Sherlock Holmes had loved him and that he had wanted to come home. Back to 221B, back to his experiments but most especially back to John Watson. To Sherlock, home was all these things. These thoughts filled John’s mind as exhaustion took hold of him and he was thrust into the darkness of sleep. John fell asleep on Lestrade’s couch with a phone clutched tightly to his chest. It was a very familiar position yet the only difference was that instead of his own phone he held Sherlock’s.
The days after Christmas was a blur to John. Helen had offered for John to stay at her flat at 12 Charing Cross Road for the time being and he had graciously accepted. He wanted to give Lestrade his space as well. The man was heart broken, that was evident for all to see. Trust became the failing of Lestrade’s relationship with his ex- wife and now, history seemed to be repeating itself. Sherlock’s return brought about more hardships for all involved.
John had stopped by 221B to get some of his things. He knew, from Lestrade, that Sherlock was staying at Mycroft’s but John still did not want to return to 221B. It held too much pain for him to bare it any longer. The flat was just as he had left it yet stepping inside felt like cutting a fresh wound open. The flat was the perfect embodiment of the cross roads he now faced. It was a mixture of the past melded with the future he thought he had wanted with Helen.
Molly Hooper had come over to Charing Cross Road at some point but John couldn’t bring himself to look at her let alone talk to her. Molly brought apologies along with her Christmas presents yet John accepted neither, simply telling her he needed time and wanted to be left alone. Trust did not come easily to John Watson and to have his trust betrayed in such a way had hurt him terribly. Molly wasn’t the only visitor at Charing Cross Road. A few days before the new year a young boy with black hair and blue eyes had knocked at their door. He couldn’t be older than nine. When he saw the boy, he first thought it was one of Helen’s patients but it turned out it was Sherlock who had sent the boy. Sherlock had asked the boy to tell John that he was sorry and wanted to speak. John of course couldn’t spill his anger unto the poor boy who was simply following orders. He didn’t want to think where Sherlock had gotten the boy. He sent the child home, with some treats for his trouble.
John’s phone buzzed at random intervals each day, signaling that a new message had been received. Each time, John didn’t bother looking at who or what the message was, for he knew it would only come from one person: Sherlock. Despite the revelation brought about by the unsent text messages, John couldn’t bring himself to let go of the anger that still burned fiercely within him. But with each day that passed, confusion blossomed further in his heart. Now he was faced with a decision: to continue down the new path he had set for himself or go back and tear down the wall of his past. Now that the what- ifs that he so desperately wished for could become reality he was at a standstill.
*
John sighed and looked at the clock on the wall. It was two hours before the New Year. In the distance, the sound of fireworks could be heard. London was celebrating but there wasn’t an ounce of excitement inside his body. John looked up as the knob of the flat turned and the door opened, revealing Helen with grocery bags in her hands. She removed her coat and scarf and hung them beside John’s.
“They still had some Turkey at the store.” She smiled jovially at John. Despite the obvious air of sorrow that hung in the flat because of John’s brooding, her demeanor was neither forced nor faked. John couldn’t help but smile at her. He stood up and crossed the room to where she was unpacking the groceries unto the kitchen counter. She had been nothing but caring and understanding about the situation.
“Helen.”
The tone in his voice made her pause, she regarded John with a questioning look.
“Yes, John?”
“I’m sorry. About Christmas, and about the past few days. I couldn’t even prepare tonight’s dinner, like I should have.” John stared at the abysmal remains of his attempt at making New Year’s dinner. “You allowed me stay here for a bit yet I’m not even pulling my own weight. I’m sorry, I just-“
Helen had stepped closer and brought John into a tender hug. It took the wind out of John. He buried his face into her hair that smelled faintly of lilacs. She just held him there, by sheer will she managed to calm John’s fluttering heart. John relaxed but he couldn’t hug her back. His heart was torn between the woman before him who had saved him and the man halfway across London who had also saved him. His two saviors. His two loves. He couldn’t bring himself to make that choice. Helen drew away. She cradled John’s hands in hers, his calloused fingers quite the contrast to her own soft hands. It was moments like this they cherished the most, when without speaking they understood each other perfectly well. Helen knew about the conflict that now raged in John’s aching heart.
“I’m here.” Two words that were so simple yet it struck through John’s heart like an arrow.
“I know.” John said, his voice cracking.
“I love you.”
There was a pause before John replied. “I love you too.”
John drew her closer and kissed her gently, a kiss that become more passionate with each passing moment. Helen drew back, her breaths coming heavily and quickly.
“John.” She exhaled, her eyes wide.
John pushed his worries at the back of his mind and focused on what was in front of him. He was here after all, not halfway across London. This was his life now. Without letting go of Helen’s hands, he led her to her room.
…
Helen’s warm hands were wrapped around him. Her head was resting on his bare chest. He watched the rhythm of her chest, seeing the slow inhale and exhale as her lungs expanded and contracted. He had an arm around her, his fingers absentmindedly playing at the stray locks of hair. Helen Rose was a wonderful woman, there was no doubt about that. She allowed him to feel alive and feel like everything would be okay. He continued to stare at her, taking in the features he knew so well: her soft lips, her long lashes, her flowing dark brown hair. There was a small smile on her lips, as if her mind was filled with happy dreams.
“Happy New Years, Helen.” John whispered softly into her ear.
His phone buzzed, without thinking he picked it up and saw the message there. John stared at phone his breath catching in his chest and his hands trembling involuntarily. Without even realizing it, he had typed a reply message.
John couldn’t bring himself to hit send. He discarded his phone and turned away from the bedside table and wrapped another arm around Helen. He closed his eyes and willed to be whisked away to wherever dream land Helen was.
For once, despite Helen’s presence, sleep did not come for his thoughts were elsewhere. His mind was at the other side of London, with the man he once considered the only one who held his heart.
