Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was all a blur. All that could be remembered were the loud bangs from the shootings, the bombs. It was awful. But was it really?

John Hamish Watson, the soldier ever so brave. Fought the war head-on. You could say he was never afraid. He was. No matter what he believed. That was what made him miss it. He lived for the danger. It’s all over now though, it ended with an explosion.

The silence was loud, it rang in his ears. There was repetitive beeping noise to accompany it. It reeked. It smelled so clean that it absolutely reeked . John awoke to a white light so awfully blinding it took a while for him to adjust.

“Morning,” He heard a voice say. Why did it sound so familiar? James Sholto, that’s why. “I thought you died.” John whispered. He rubbed his eyes and sat up from the hospital bed. “Well I’m here now, aren’t I?” Sholto replied, grinning. John wanted to laugh, cry. “You’re not real… Can’t be.” He just smiled.

 “I am, if you believe it.”

“Your therapist is annoying. You sure you need her?” John snorted. “I’m talking to you. Pretty sure that’s proper criteria for getting a therapist.” Ella, the therapist in question, cleared her throat. “John, are you listening?” John waved a hand, shooing ‘Sholto’ away. “Yeah sorry, listening.” John grunted and sat more comfortably. He tapped his fingers on his thighs, as if impatient. Well he was. He couldn’t wait for this session to end.

‘Therapy’ had ended. John slung his bag over his shoulder and left. He walked – well, limped – back to his old bedsit. Stupid leg. He’d get used to it eventually. The weight in his back pocket made him forget about it for a while. His browning, kept illegally. He never told Ella about that. It made him feel safe. Home. It will take him home.

He struggled with his keys that kept jingling. Over and over. The noise, it rang in his ears. His head ached ‘till it stopped. Finally, he opened the door. He tossed the keys, not bothering where he threw it. He took off his coat. Gracefully, if you’d prefer to be sarcastic. Took off his shoes and slumped on the mattress. Cheap. Second hand probably. Stained and stiff. 

He took out his gun, and loaded it. “Finally gonna do it? Good riddance. You’re no use here. Not in boring ol’ London.” Sholto had reappeared beside him. He hadn’t looked at him, but John felt like eyes were boring into him. He placed the muzzle of the gun against his temple. Then switched the position to the other side of his head. His hands had a slight tremor in them. “You don’t have the guts to actually do it, do you, Watson?” Sholto scoffed. Then there was a knock on the door.

John abandoned the thought and threw his gun to the side. He could feel Sholto glaring at him. It was all in his head though. He got up to answer the door. “Who’s… there.” It was the London Post Office. “Mail for John Watson?” John groaned quietly and snatched the mail from out of the confused man’s hands. He slammed the door and sorted through his mail. Then a familiar name caught his attention. Harry Watson. He hasn’t heard from Harry in a while. He opens it and reads the letter.

Hey bro!!! Mom’s been askin bout ya. Im 3 years sober. Hooray for me!! 

Anyways mom wants u over. Heard ur back from war. Our good ol family house. U remember dat right? Wants us to reunight again

Love

Harry :)

John chuckled. The badly written letter felt oddly nostalgic. Harry had never been good at writing. He would think about going. 

He had gone, eventually. It was… nice, he supposed. Now he’s on his way back from his nearly two hour train ride from Bristol. He had left in the morning, he arrived in the morning. He decided to take a walk ‘round London. Decided he needed to stretch. He brought his cane with him of course. It became a necessity in his life, after the war. His limp got him looks from everyone. What does it matter to him anyways?

On his walk he heard someone call out his name. “John, John Watson?” John turned around to see who it was. “Sorry, who?” His face scrunched up slightly in confusion. The stranger, well guess not so stranger after all, just smiled. “Stamford. Mike Stamford.”

Chapter Text

“Stamford. Mike Stamford. We were at Barts together?” John rubbed his eyes and blinked a couple of times. He apologised, “Sorry, yes, Mike, hello.” He blinked again some more and shook his head. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Yes, I know, I got fat. I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?” John rubbed the sides of his head. Headache. “I got shot.” He chuckled. 

“Coffee?”

“Are you still at Barts, then?” They had finally sat down. “Teaching now, yeah. Bright young things like we used to be. God, I hate them.” Mike laughed, John didn’t. “What about you? Just staying in town till you get yourself sorted?”

 John’s headache was so bad. He wanted to go back. “I- can't afford London on an Army pension.” 

“You couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the John Watson I know.”

  “I'm not the John Watson-” He was quick to defend himself. From nothing. His wrist hurt. He switched his coffee cup to his other hand. He clenched his hand to stop the shaking. 

“Couldn't Harry help?” John laughs sarcastically. “Yeah, like that's going to happen.” Mike shrugged it off. “I don't know, get a flatshare or something?” John laughed at the idea. At least he thought he did. He shook his head. 

“Come on, who'd want me for a flatmate?” That’s right. Broken, suicidal ex-army doctor. Who’d want that? Mike just chuckled. John looked confused. “What?” He rubbed away his non-existent tears. 

“Well, you’re the second person to say that to me today.”

“Who was the first?”

Why’d he agree to this? This was bloody stupid. He was totally fine in his trashy bedsit in which he was basically wasting away. He squeezed his leg and carried on walking up with Mike. 

“You actually agreed to this?” Sholto had reappeared, trailing behind him. “I didn’t agree to anything.” John replied firmly. It didn’t come off that way. His voice cracked and it was weak.

Mike looked at John while they walked. “What was that, John?” Mike asked, he had a slight look of concern. He hated the look of pity everyone gave him . They finally arrived at their… supposed destination. Mike knocked on the door and opened it.

“Bit different… from my day.” He said, to avoid the ear splitting silence. He observed the other individual in the room. Tall. His aura reminded him of Sholto’s. 

Why was he here again? “You’ve no idea!” Mike interrupted his train of thought. The other person in the room only took a quick glance at them before speaking up. 

“Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.” Mike looked up. “And… what’s wrong with the landline?” 

“I prefer to text.”

 He felt for his phone in his pockets. “Sorry, it’s in my coat.” Somehow, John felt like he was about to cave in. He felt like they were staring. Like he felt obligated to hand over his phone, for the sake of this odd stranger. He shook his head. He wiped his sweaty hand on his trousers and reached into his back pocket. “Here, uhm… Use mine.” 

He looked at John. “Oh, thank you.” He reached for the phone and flipped it open. “Old friend of mine, John Watson.” Mike inserted. He just nodded slightly in acknowledgement and typed something up and said, “Afghanistan or Iraq?” 

He saw right through him. Right now, John wanted to run. He felt vulnerable. But for what reason?  

“Sorry?” He tried to act stupid, but he knew it was not going to work. 

“Which was it; Afghanistan or Iraq?” He was gonna pretend he did not know what he meant. But he figured, if he knew about that, then surely he’d see through his lying. 

“Afghanistan… How’d you know…?”

 Before a reply came, another person walked in. She looked small. Not quite literally, but figuratively. She had a mug in her hands. “Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you.” He closed John’s phone and tossed it his way. He had narrowly missed it. 

“What happened to the lipstick?” She just smiled awkwardly. “It wasn’t working for me.” He looked up at her blankly. He looked back down and took the mug from her hands. “I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth’s too small now.” 

Suddenly, John had the urge to vomit. “Mike, I’ll go, I have to- I’ll come back.” He rushed out, hand over his mouth.”

He threw up in the toilet at the public restrooms they had at Barts. He flushed it down and went out of the cubicle. He spat out the rest in the sink and turned on the faucet. He watched all the bits flow down to the drain. He washed his hands and wiped his mouth. 

He could still taste it. It tasted absolutely sickening. He tried to wash it out. 

“How do you feel about the violin?” A voice came from behind him. His heart nearly jumped out. He turned around. 

“My God, it’s you. Don’t do that. Wait, what about… the violin?” 

John looked at the person he saw at the lab, and had apparently followed him. “I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end.” He looks behind John, clearly at the sink. 

“Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other. Oh and, you missed a spot. There’s still a bit of your… ejections, on the sink.” John looked back at the sink, washed off whatever he was referring to, then looked back at the man. He gripped the sink.

 “Did Mike… tell you about that?” He looked at him, suspicious. 

“No, I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t that difficult a leap.” John forced a smile. His mouth still tasted sour. He rubbed his hands together and asked, “How did you… know about Afghanistan…?” 

The mysterious man ignored his question entirely. “Got my eye on a nice little place in Central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it.” He moved closer to John. John felt like he was suffocating. The man seemed to notice, so he backed away. “We’ll meet there tomorrow evening; Seven o’ clock. Sorry, gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

“Is that it?”

 The man looks back at John. “Is that what?” He looks at him, a slight look of confusion in his eyes. What’s there to be confused about? “We’ve only just met and we’re gonna go and look at a flat?” 

He realised what John had meant. “Problem?” 

John wanted to laugh at him. “We don’t know a thing about each other. I don’t know where we’re meeting. I don’t even know your name.” The man looked at John so smugly. God, he just wanted the kiss off that look on his face… He meant wipe. Or punch.  

“I know you’re an Army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him, possibly because he’s an alcoholic. More likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic, quite correctly, I’m afraid.” John looked at him in disbelief. 

“That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?” Just as the man was about to leave the restroom, he looked as if he remembered something. He turned back. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon!”

Sherlock Holmes. Peculiar fellow . John returns back to his substandard bedsit to rest. God he needed a nap.

He woke up the next day. Apparently the nap had turned into a 13-hour sleep. He had missed dinner yesterday. It was 2 AM as of the moment. He couldn’t fall back to sleep anymore, so he decided to get up. “Up and early, Watson?” Sholto, yet again. Getting up and under his skin. He tried his best to ignore him, but worked to no avail. 

“You can’t give me the silent treatment, Watson. I can hear your thoughts either way,” He layed beside him. 

“Still feeling useless today? Or do you finally feel like you’re worth something? That Sherlock Holmes fellow, a beauty ain’t he? Got you wetting your pants like a hormonal teen. Embarrassing, especially for you.”

 John groans and rubs his eyes. He clumsily grabs his phone from his bedside table and searches for… ah. Messages Sent.

If brother has green ladder

arrest brother.

SH

Interesting fellow indeed. Maybe there was something about him somewhere. He thought about it carefully before reaching out for his laptop where it sat in its place on his table. He powers it on and opens up his browser. Sherlock Holmes, The Science of Deduction. He clicks on the link and the website shows up on his screen. Tobacco… Left thumbs… This is the moment. The moment when John H. Watson realises what he signed himself up for.

He slept. Whatever time he had left ‘til tomorrow evening he spent it all on sleeping. That way Sholto bothered him a bit less. Unless, of course, he showed up in his dreams(nightmares). He had no control over that.

He had woken up around later evening, just for the necessity of eating, then went back to sleep.

Sholto had managed to bother him once or twice, appearing in whatever dreams he had managed to get with so little sleep he had. The rest of the time was actually spent on trying to sleep. He was unable to for some reason. A reason so obvious.

Sometime in his sleep, his body felt like it was lit on fire. It was abnormally hot and he was half-hard. He tried to will it away, tried to sleep it off. It inevitably failed. He couldn’t go back to sleep anyways. It was already 6.

It was nearing 7 o’ clock, and the time before that was spent by him tripping over himself getting ready, feeling somnolent due to the fact he had slept the entirety of the day.

He walked out, slipping on one of the steps on the way, and decided to walk all the way there. It pisses his leg off, but hailing a cab would probably piss his wallet off. It wasn’t even that far.

“Nice day for a stroll, ain’t it, Watson?” Damn you, Sholto… Wait- Since when did you get sunglasses?

“Go away,” John muttered, still not quite used to his antics. 

Sholto quickened his pace to face him, subsequently having him walk backwards instead. “Oh, come on. You love me. The ladies love me. Aye?” He raised his eyebrows in a waggish manner. John was not amused.

“Just piss off, mate. You’re not helping.” He groaned in frustration and tried to shut him out. It worked to some extent. Didn’t hear him anymore, yet his mouth still moved. He’d finally reached Bakerstreet at least.

He paced back and forth in front of the door. It earned him a few stares but it was as if he couldn’t be physically anywhere near that door. He rubbed his sweaty palms off on his jacket and straightened it. Just when he had finally worked up the courage to knock, that’s when a voice came.

“Hello.”

John visibly flinched, slowly turning around. “Ah… Uh… Mr. Holmes.” He put his hand out to shake and Sherlock took it in his.

“Your hands are sweating. Are you nervous? There’s no need to be. I don’t bite . And– Sherlock, please.”

He swallowed whatever there was to swallow. His eyes darted around, and eventually noticed he was still holding on to his hand. He muttered out an apology before speaking, “Looks like a… prime spot. Must be expensive. I don’t think I could even afford a fourth of the price. Are you… You sure or something?”

He chuckled dryly, only meeting his gaze for a second. “Oh, Mrs Hudson, the landlady, she’s giving me a special deal. Owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out.”

John’s eyes widened momentarily before he cleared his throat. It was all surreal, really. “Sorry- You stopped her husband being executed?”

“Oh no. I ensured it.”

He flashes a smile, and the mentioned landlady opens the door, holding out her arms for the man. “Sherlock, hello,” She says, with such warmth you’d think she was his mother.

“Mrs Hudson, Doctor John Watson.”

The dear old landlady gave him a face of pleasantries before greeting, “Hello.” 

He felt awkward. “... Hi.”

She smiled some more, “Come in!” She gestured, something bordering on shoving them inside. 

“Shall we?”

It was decent, to say the least. “Quite nice, actually.” 

She hums. “What do you think then, Doctor Watson? There’s another bedroom upstairs if you’ll be needing two bedrooms.” Was she implying something?

“Yeah, I think. It’d be weird if I- I dunno...” He trailed off, realising he has no idea what he was saying. Nice work, Watson.

“ Oh, don’t worry; there’s all sorts round here,” she dropped her voice to a mere whisper, “Mrs. Turner next door’s got married ones.”

“But that’s not-” 

“Oh, Sherlock, the mess you’ve made...” Mrs. Hudson started fussing around, sorting out here and there in the kitchen.

John sighs in defeat and settles down in one of the arm chairs.

“I looked you up... last night.”

“Anything interesting?” Cocky.

“The Science of Deduction,” He stared at the ceiling. “It’s yours, right?” 

Sherlock grinned, looking somewhat hopeful. “What did you think?”

“I think you’re a right twat.”

He faltered. “Oh.” 

“Seriously, you’re- You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb.”

He lit up again. “Yes– and I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother’s drinking habits on your mobile phone.”

“Well-”

“What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that’d be right up your street. Three exactly the same.” What is up with me always getting interrupted?

Sherlock walked across the living room, peering down one of the windows. 

“Four,” Now he’s all giddy. “There’s been a fourth. And there’s something different this time.”

“A fourth?”

“Where?”

Now some cop’s broken in. “Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.”

“What’s new about this one? You wouldn’t have come to get me if there wasn’t something different.”

“You know how they never leave notes?”

“Yes?”

“This one did. Will you come?”

“Who’s on forensics?”

“It’s Anderson.” What the fuck is an Anderson?

Sherlock deflated. “Anderson won’t work with me.”

“Well, he won’t be your assistant.”

“I need an assistant.”

“Will you come?”

“Not in a police car. I’ll be right behind.”

“Thank you.” Mr. Cop-who-also-breaks-and-enters hurries off down the stairs and once he’s left Sherlock just jumps. He spins around the room looking all happy.

“Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it’s Christmas! Mrs Hudson, I’ll be late. Might need some food.”

“I’m your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper.”

“Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don’t wait up!” Just ignored her. The bastard. Brilliant fuckin’ bastard. He runs off like a child who’s just been promised candy and left the flat. 

“Look at him, dashing about! My husband was just the same.” He grimaces at the implication. “But you’re more the sitting-down type, I can tell.”

“Right...”

“I’ll make you that cuppa. You rest your leg.”

“Damn my leg!” Well that was something. “Sorry, I’m so sorry. It’s just sometimes this bloody thing..”

“ I understand, dear. I’ve got a hip.”

John heaves a sigh and  picks up the newspaper which Mrs. Hudson put down. Before he could read anything, he’s interrupted by Sherlock’s sudden reappearance.

“You’re a doctor. In fact you’re an Army doctor.”

“Well, I guess-”

“Any good?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“Seen a lot of injuries, then– violent deaths.”

“I- Well- Uhmm, yes.”

“Bit of trouble too, I bet.” Where is this heading?

“Enough... for a lifetime... Far too much.”

“Want to see some more?” There it is.

“Oh, uhm... Why... Why not?”

Sherlock spins on his heel and dashes down the stairs. 

“Hey, wait-” He looks around frantically before yelling a thanks and goodbye to the landlady. He tries to catch up with him, managing to reach the door in time.

“Impossible suicides? Four of them? There’s no point sitting at home when there’s finally something fun going on!”