10:48 pm: 221B Baker Street, Westminster London
- Brother and Sister -
John gazed out at the busy passers-by from his comfortable chair by the window. Long shadows were cast as the sun began its slow descent on a familiar path it takes each day. Once, the shadows symbolized the darkness that threatened to overwhelm his aching heart. The shadows cast were far from the menacing incarnations they once represented. His heart was no longer plagued with the grief and sense of less that used to characterize his days. The shadows of buildings, cabs and people danced around each other in the cracked pavement below, greeting each other like old friends once lost but now reunited.
Workers were now returning to their families, busy business men were speeding along cabs to retire in their estates and school children were making their way home hand in hand with their parents. The world continued to move as it always did
John tore his eyes away from Baker Street. The flat was tinged with an orange light, like flaming embers from a dying fire. The sun shone through the panes, the china glinting in the low rays of the London sunset. The doctor fingered his teacup, watching absentmindedly as the small movements caused ripples in his afternoon tea.
The ripples reminded him of a time long passed; time spent in a quaint house far away in the London countryside.
——-
John was four when he learned he was to become a brother.
A much younger John Watson held a teacup much too big for him. The cup wobbled dangerously despite his tiny fingers enveloping the cup. He walked towards his mother’s room to see both his mother and father leaning over a tiny bundle that was in his mother’s hands. John walked towards his parents, careful not to spill the tea in his hands. He looked up to his mother, a mother whose face he couldn’t even remember. He placed the teacup on the bedside table a bit too high for him and climbed the bed to see the contents of the bundle a little better. He perched on his mother’s lap as the bundle was brought closer to him. A loud cry was heard as the little baby opened her tiny eyes and stared up at him. John gazed back down at the strange bundle eyeing it with shock and wonder. He reached out towards the baby. Small fingers, even tinier than his own, tried to grasp his fingers.
“Meet your little sister, Harry.” His mother said quietly.
His father placed a firm hand on his shoulder. John looked up at him, absently trying to shake his finger from Harry’s surprisingly firm grasp.
“You’re a big brother now, John. It’s your job to take care of your little sister.” He said gruffly.
John nodded, not quite understanding what all of it meant. He could only gaze in wonder at what was called a sister.
This was his earliest memory, the only time he could remember his family being together and somewhat happy.
*
John was five when he learned what loss meant. Being five years old, there was only so much little John Watson could comprehend.
There had been a lot of shouting and banging around their house lately. It wasn’t uncommon for little John to wake up in the middle of the night and hear shouts coming from his parent’s bedroom or the breaking of glasses or plates from the kitchen. Sometimes he would build forts with his blankets and pillows. It was his own place in his own little world. In his fort he felt safe. He would usually cover his ears in his hands and will himself to get lost in one of those fairy tales he always read, fairy tales that usually had a happy ending. Yet, there were times when even the walls of his fort could not shut out the shouts, the cursing and the threats.
One night he awoke to more shouts. He curled up in his blankets, trying to find some comfort in their warmth. The shouting grew worse through out the night. He could hear Harry’s crying above all the noise. He got up from his makeshift fort and crept towards his parents room. Before he could peak inside the tiny crack the door afforded however, it was thrown wide open and his mother stormed out with bags in hand. The resounding bang of the front door closing rung in John’s ears like a gunshot. He walked towards Harry’s crib and tried to calm her by cradling her in his arms.
In the morning that followed, John mustered his courage to ask his father where his mother had gone. His father stared blankly into the fire of their living room before turning his gaze towards John. His gaze was one filled with both loss, anguish and hate yet those were emotions beyond little John. He simply knew his father was sad.
“She’s gone.” He said quietly.
“Gone?”
“Gone! And She’s never coming back!”
After that day his father never spoke of his mother again. Any trace left of his mother was immediately chucked into the fire the very next day. John had watched his father throw their family portraits in the fire. John watched from the shadows as his father threw everything of his mother’s into the fire in a blind rage.
He never asked about his mother again.
*
John was ten when he experienced true fear. When one was young, one learned to fear a lot of things; imaginary ghosts in the closet, the loss of one’s favorite sweet in the candy shop. But it is rare for a child to experience true fear and it is rare for a child to experience the harsh realities of the world.
There weren’t a lot of kids around their home in the countryside. Their father didn’t have the patience nor the time to drive them to the neighborhood to play with the other kids so both John and Harry had learned to entertain themselves with what they could find around them. When not playing with his sister, John spent his time reading books that were lying around the house.
This one particular morning, the both of them decided to play a game of hide and seek. John was never good at this game. Harry, who had become a rather rambunctious six year old, always managed to find better hiding places. John was about to give up looking for his little sister when he heard a scraping above him. He looked up in time to see Harry climbing to the top of the roof.
“Harry!” John called out to her.
Harry looked down from her perch on the cobbled roof and smiled at her big brother.
“You found me! John!” She called out to him in her playful tone.
“Harry! Get down from there! How many times have I told you to stop going up there it isn’t safe” His anxiety slowly building with each passing moment.
“John, don’t be silly! It’s –“ Before she could continue her sandal caught in one of the loose cobbled panes and she slipped. John could do nothing but call out to her as she fell from two stories from the roof.
John wiped away the tears that were forming in his eyes as he ran towards the crumpled form of his sister on the ground. Her leg was bent at an odd angle. He called out to her name again and again but her eyes remained closed. His father was nowhere to be found so John took matters into his own hands. Somehow, due to some book he has read, he managed to make a splint for Harry’s broken leg. In the interval wherein John waited impatiently for help to come, Harry had woken up. In shock, John drooped the wet cloth he was using on he forehead. John could remember the feeling of relief that welled up inside him during that instant. He could remember crying hard against Harry’s small shoulder. Death wasn’t something John could fully comprehend at the time but he knew for a fact that he could have lost his sister.
He looked up when a tender hand was placed upon his shoulder. He looked up to see, not his father but a man in white. John felt safe around him, and he knew at that moment that Harry was going to be okay.
“I’m a doctor, were you the one that called us?”
John simply nodded, not quite able to speak.
“You did good, kid. We’ll take it from here.” The man in white had said, patting John in the back.
The man in white, had others with him and together they made Harry better.
“Your sister’s going to be alright, thanks to you.”
It was during that day John decided he wanted to become a doctor. In the years that followed he never told Harry that she was the reason he wanted to become a doctor.
*
John was twelve when he learned not to rely too heavily on his own father.
It was during this time when his father wouldn’t come home for days on end. Most of his teachers saw John as a shy yet responsible boy who seldom gallivanted with boys his own age. When he wasn’t studying, he would be busy with chores around the house and taking care of his younger sister. In short, John grew up fairly quickly.
Harry was allowed to live her childhood. John tried to shield her from the problems that were so evident to him: a neglectful father, bills, debts, lack of money for food.
*
John was seventeen when he experienced his first heartbreak. This was one of his fondest memories of his sister. John always considered Harry quite a strong woman, both physically and emotionally. This was one of those instances that this became evident.
John, still being the shy boy that he was, couldn’t tell the girl of his dreams what he felt about her. So, Harry, being the straight forward girl that she was, marched up to the girl and told her herself. The girl didn’t even know who John Watson was and scoffed at Harry when she pointed out John from the crowd.
John could still remember the loud smack that echoed throughout the hallway when Harry’s fist came into contact with the girl’s face.
“Never insult my brother! Only I get to do that.” Harry had said, towering over the girl with her fist in the air. It was something they had laughed about afterwards (YEARS AFTER), but after the initial embarrassment of having to drag his sister away from the poor girl, John was very thankful he had a sister like Harry.
*
John was twenty one when everything had begun to fall to pieces. Throughout his stay at uni, John had less time to check on his little sister. John tried very hard to protect his little sister from the world. Yet, with all his ministrations, he still failed to save Harry from her own greatest enemy: herself. Harry had developed a rather nasty addiction to drinking. Sometimes John wouldn’t attend his classes to take care of his rather wasted sister or nurse her during her nastier hang overs. Each and every time she had promised John that she would stop, but promise after promise was broken.
When John went to train at Bart’s Harry’s condition deteriorated with their relationship along with it.
*
John was twenty seven when his father died. He had already been serving in the army then. Brief letters were exchanged between Harry and himself during his time in the army. The closeness that they had when they were kids was now reduced to something that could be simply called civil.
John rushed back to London to momentarily return to the only family he had left. His mother was nowhere to be found, his father no lay six feet underground and now he was left with his addict of a sister. It pained John to see his sister lost in the throes of alcoholism. Like everything in his life at the time, all of it has seemed so out of his control.
And so, John did the only logical thing he thought he could have done at the time.
He walked away.
No longer did he involve himself with his sister’s life. For years their relationship continued on like that. His last words to her during their father’s funeral still etched in his mind.
“You know what, I give up.”
———
A knock echoed through the room snapping John Watson out of his reverie. John stood, with teacup still in hand, and crossed the flat, laying his hand against the doorknob. He twisted it, opening the door and revealing the person on the other side. Harriet Watson stood there, framed in the doorway. She had her hands in her coat pockets, and a guarded expression crossed her features.
John smiled sadly at the sister he pushed away. The supposed death of Sherlock Holmes had broken John in many ways. John himself became an addict, pushing his already sober sister further away from him. John had condemned his sister for doing what she did all those years ago, yet Harry did not do the same.
His relationships were mending all around him. He had his other half return to him, he made peace with the memory of his father months ago. It was time to make peace with his sister as well. The past didn’t matter now, what mattered was his family.
“John.” She called to him, in very much the same manner as her younger counterpart once did.
“I’m sorry.” John said, looking into brown eyes that were so much like his own.
Harry rushed towards her older brother and hugged him as tightly as she once did when they were kids.
“I missed you, John.”
“I missed you too.”
Harry sat in the couch and John sat there with her, after making her some tea. Harry was no longer that little sister he had to take care of once before. Without realizing it, she had grown up. They were adults now, trying to mend their own broken relationships. The hours passed by as both of them got lost in their memories, coming to terms with their past. The sun faded into the darkness of the night yet John still felt like the sun was shining.
And the time came for Harry to leave. They were no longer the siblings they once were because now they had their own lives to live, yet John knew from this day on it would be different.
Harry made her way towards the door, but before she could open it, the door opened of its own accord to reveal Sherlock Holmes behind it. Harry stopped, regarding the consulting detective with a certain melancholy conviction. Sherlock returned her gaze steadily, his hands firmly clasped behind his back, and his chin held up in typical Sherlock fashion. A sort of silent understanding seemed to pass between the both of them, before a ripple of calm washed through the both of them. The younger Watson stepped around the consulting detective, pausing just for a moment to say something that only Sherlock could hear. Sherlock simply nodded before looking at John and giving him a small smile.
Sherlock never told John what Harry had whispered to him that night, but John had a pretty good idea.
Source: waitingat221b
221B Baker Street, Westminster London
8:32 PM
_______
- UPDATE -
From now on, the posts on this blog will follow a certain schedule:
THURSDAY NIGHTS: New text
MONDAY NIGHTS: New stories
I hope all of you have a good day. - JW
Source: waitingat221b
*art privately commissioned from Ms. Lea*
6:37 pm: 221B Baker Street, Westminster London
- Sherlock and John -
The earth still revolved around the sun, the world still spun in a counter clockwise manner and there were still twenty four hours in the day. The London weather was still as abysmal as it had been a year ago. The city was overcast once again. In the outside world, time continued its slow steady pace, with no regard for the two individuals who resided in 221B Baker Street.
Once upon a time, Sherlock Holmes could not be bothered with such trivial things, but coming back from the dead changed one’s perspective quite a bit.
Inasmuch as things were the same, things were also quite different.
The maelstrom around the flat wasn’t so foreign to the both of them. There were case files, mixed with experiment notes and medical texts. Yet in the familiar environment sat two very different people.
John Watson had has laptop propped open on the table. His fingertips hung above the keys. They twitched as if on the verge of typing something but in the end they just hovered there waiting for something John knew would never come. The page was opened on his blog, the one he used to write about his adventures with Sherlock. It had been months since he’d been on the thing. John stared blankly at the screen. The curser blinked mockingly at him, marking each passing second that passed by. Somehow, he thought and hoped that things would fall back into place, yet here was evidence at how wrong he was.
Sherlock’s return had brought him into a roller coaster of emotions. First there was anger, then there was happiness but then there were days when confusion and sadness emerged as victor against the other emotions. Today was one of those days. He clenched his fist absent-mindedly, keeping light tremors at bay. The old gun wound on his shoulder throbbed dully, reacting to the cool weather. His third cup of coffee was just within reach, yet he paid it no mind. The gray wisps evaporated in the cool air, with no semblance of order in its demeanor. It was similar to how John felt: chaotic.
John Watson didn’t have a shift today, yet he still dressed as if he would be stepping out. If someone who knew John looked at him this very moment, they would immediately see the tenseness. It was as if the doctor was ready to bolt at the door at a moment’s notice. Once, John Watson had tried to run away by trying to end his life. Afterwards, he had taken it upon himself to take the better road. He realized that running away was only postponing the inevitable. It took all his self control to sit here and try and sift through his emotions.
A complete contrast to John’s tense guise was the man sitting right across him. Sherlock Holmes was sitting quite comfortably on the chair leaning over some specimens under his microscope. The freshly cut curls that cascaded down his face was a bit damp from his recent bath. A bathrobe was tied loosely around his person. Sherlock absently ran his slender fingertips along his microscope, the cool metal bringing a slight tingling sensation.
When the good doctor wasn’t looking or giving fleeting furtive glances from across the table, Sherlock gazed at John with a scrutiny and attentiveness he gave his own experiments. But John wasn’t just an experiment, John was John. He regarded John quite differently from the detached way he handled his experiments. Sherlock saw the sadness that crossed the older man’s features. The same sadness that was mirrored on his own features.
Sherlock noticed John clenching his fist and on occasion, massaging his left shoulder. The bags under John’s downcast eyes didn’t escape Sherlock’s notice as well. It didn’t take a consulting detective to understand what those things meant, nor did it take a consulting detective to realize that all of it had been his doing. Yet, things were looking better. There was no argument today, John didn’t leave the flat all day either to go for a walk to “clear his mind”. Such walks were a normal occurrence for John and more often than not, Sherlock simply sat in his chair and waited for John to come back. John had waited for Sherlock for months, Sherlock was willing to give John the same courtesy. Now though, they sat there in something akin to companionable silence, listening to familiar sounds: the London traffic, the ticking of the clock, the occasional twist of a knob on the microscope, the uncertain typing on laptop keys and their regular breathing.
His return hadn’t been as easy as he would have hoped, but anything was better than the loneliness of being alone. In many ways, John Watson had opened Sherlock’s eyes to things that truly mattered. He was still learning the ways of his recently discovered heart. On some days, like today, he felt overwhelmed by emotions and sentiments. Such things never came easy for Sherlock, for years he pushed them away, thinking they made him less of a person. Years ago, it was all about being efficient, things were simply and easily calculated yet the entrance of John Watson into his life had thrown all this calculations into disarray. Yet, it was John that showed him that emotions weren’t a weakness at all but a strength. It was also John that showed him he had a heart. It wasn’t rotten or shriveled from misuse as he’d come to expect, but thriving and throbbing for one very specific person.
John suddenly got up from his chair, and Sherlock snapped out from his contemplation in surprise. He held his breath as he watched John’s progression. Instead of reaching for his coat and the doorknob however, John averted his course and headed towards the kitchen. John paused and turned back his head slightly towards Sherlock. Sherlock hadn’t even noticed that he held the edge of the table, as if bracing himself to sprint after John. He relaxed a bit as the doctor regarded him.
“Want some tea?” it was the first word that John said to him today.
“Sure.” Sherlock said, his voice feeling a bit detached.
John turned around and continued his progress towards the kitchen.
“John?” John halted and looked back towards Sherlock again.
“Yeah?” There was a pause before John added “Sherlock?”
“Thank you.” Sherlock knew that wasn’t just for the tea, and John understood.
John nodded and turned back towards the kitchen, yet Sherlock noticed a ghost of a smile fall unto the doctor’s lips. Sherlock Holmes leaned back on his chair as he watched the retreating figure of John Watson.
Things were different, but some things would always remain the same. There were cases and there were experiments but most of all there was Sherlock and John in 221B Baker Street. And to both these men, that was what mattered the most.
Source: waitingat221b
John Watson’s Shoutbox and Chatbox
If any of you were visiting my blog recently, you would have noticed two chatboxes on my page. The first one (the blue one) is a shoutbox where you could interact with various visitors of the blog, as well as myself. It is similar to those groupchats.
The second chatbox (the brown one) is a private chatbox that gives you direct access to me, so if you so choose, we could have a one on one chat. This is, if you feel that the public domain is no such place for whatever discussion you want to have.
The rationale behind these chatboxes are the same as before: I set this up, to get to know the people who spend the time reading my entries and more importantly get to know those who send their support, well wishes and other such sentiments which I assure you are greatly appreciated.
Thank you and a good day to all of you.
- JW
Source: waitingat221b
*art privately commissioned from Stefanie*
9:00 am: 221B Baker Street, Westminster London
- The Morning After the Return -
Sherlock Holmes stood atop the roof of St. Bart’s looking at London that was laid out beneath him. Many would admit, though begrudgingly, that Sherlock Holmes was a god among men. He saw things beyond the visible. He himself treaded beyond the lines of what people would call normal. The world’s only consulting detective, both hated and revered.
Yet, at this very moment those things didn’t matter. John Watson, companion to Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock’s assistant, or “that short guy with that detective” as some would call him, only saw one thing. His best friend. Two words that were far more simplistic and rudimentary than all those other titles Sherlock held, yet it meant more to the world to him than anything.
John Watson was looking to the heavens, desperately trying to stop the inevitable. The phone in his hand felt like a heavy weight he struggled to hold up. His feet were firmly held in place by the fear that gripped his heart. He watched as the world unraveled before him, like an out of control train speeding towards its impending doom. The events that unfolded before his eyes were eerily familiar, yet he could not draw away from its clutches. And each and every time it ended in the same way: death.
And so John ran. Ran towards his best friend. Yet with each step he took, his best friend went further away from him, until eventually he was out of John’s reach. Sherlock had gone to a place where John could not follow.
“Sherlock!”
John woke up with a start, his breathes coming in staggered and haggard gasps, sweat trickling down his brow. The panic in his chest rose as he recognized the ceiling above him. It wasn’t the cream colored ceiling he was used to at Charring Cross road. It was the dirtied ceiling of his old flat: 221B Baker Street. John closed his eyes, willing the nightmare to go away; for nothing good came out of his mind’s dwelling on 221B. Too many hurtful things had happened here. With each moment that passed, the more he began to realize he wasn’t dreaming. Then he noticed other things that didn’t seem quite right, or rather, things that felt right but didn’t make sense. There was a heavy weight upon his chest and a warm body pressed against him. It wasn’t Helen’s he knew, but whoever it was felt familiar enough.
His disorientation turned into confusion and surprise as he tore his eyes away from the ceiling above and gazed at the sight before him. Time seemed to slow and eventually freeze in that very instant. Sherlock Holmes was lying on John’s chest. Both of them were splayed out in the couch, falling asleep in each other’s arms. And then, the events of last night came back to him in a rush. Broken images of last night’s reunion flashed in his mind, one moment after the next. Yet, in the scattered memories one surfaced above the rest.
Sherlock Holmes leaned towards John’s and placed soft lips unto his own.
John raised a hand towards his lips, almost expecting the warmth of Sherlock’s lips there.
The tension left John’s body as one thought finally dawned on him.
He was home. He was finally home. Home with Sherlock. The breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding was finally released. Yet, John felt a different release altogether. Invisible shackles of grief that have been slowly constricting him the past few months now slacked their hold.
Shaking himself out of his stupor, he stared hungrily at the consulting detective committing to memory what laid before him. The light that flitted through the curtain drawn windows illuminated Sherlock’s face. John took in the way the black as night curls cascaded down Sherlock’s pale chiseled face, the way his cheekbones prominently shown in his shallow skin, the way his shallow breathes made his chest rise and fall ever so slowly, the way Sherlock’s hands clutched at John’s jumper possessively.
John regarded the sight, warmth spreading through his chest. He didn’t know how long he sat there, observing the consulting detective and thinking of how the impossible had finally become possible. The one miracle he had been waiting for had finally come to be.
“Sherlock.” John said softly, raising his hand to brush his fingertips slightly on the other’s check.
A wave of emotions came over John as the contact brought sparks of electricity with it. The warmth he found there was both familiar and comforting. His body shook as the tears came and he trembled slightly. He placed his head in his hand and a mirthful laugh escaped his lips, coated with a tinge of the insanity that had threatened to engulf him months before.
Slowly his breaths became more leveled, and the spots that came before his eyes ceased and he allowed to be consumed by the tears. Nowadays he only cried for one person, and that was Sherlock Holmes. But for the first time in months they were tears of joy, more than anything. No longer was John wracked by the anguish of the past. A different feeling had come over him. It was something that could not easily be found but defined by such a simplistic label: love.
The detective stirred from his place on John’s chest. The head that was resting on the doctor’s torso lifted slowly. Blue eyes came into contact with brown ones. For a fleeting second, John saw the confusion that he himself felt moments before being replaced by a rather different emotion. Relief and contentment laced Sherlock’s features as he looked at John Watson. John knew Sherlock had been thinking the exact same thing he had been.
Not a dream.
Or perhaps it was, a dream that had finally come into fruition, a reality that the both of them could share together.
The sallowness and emptiness of his deep blue eyes were still there, but a certain spark had returned to them, as if what was once lost had been returned. They just sat there, taking the sight of each other in and relishing each minute that passed by in their silence. Words weren’t needed here now. There would be more time for things such as talking, explaining, catching up, blaming but for now there was simply Sherlock and John and nothing else. The silence was profound, filled with things that only the both of them could understand. The ticking of the clock in the background was the only thing that denoted the passage of time.
Sherlock released his grip from John’s jumpers and slowly brought his hands up to the retired army doctor’s face. They stalled moments before the long slender digits came into contact with John’s face. A silence question passed between them as Sherlock observed the fresh tears that had fallen from John’s eyes, and the haunted look he found there.
A sadness tinged with regret passed through Sherlock’s features. An apology almost graced his lips before he felt John’s finger press tenderly against them. He blinked once, and then blinked again. The contact shook away whatever cobwebs plagued Sherlock’s mind.
The slender hands hanging in the air finally came into contact with John’s face. Sherlock caressed john, wiping the tear tracks away with a gentle stroke of his thumb. The Sherlock that he knew had never been this vulnerable and open to displaying sentiments and emotions but the Sherlock Holmes of nineteen months ago had never had to deal with the aftermath of faking his own death in Moriarty’s sick twisted game. In the same way, John Watson had never been so withdrawn and uneasy with expressing what he truly felt for the John Watson of nineteen months ago did not experience being torn to pieces repeatedly until nothing but a shell of his former self was left.
Both of them were learning from their mistakes.
Both of them were broken.
Yet it is in their brokenness that they could be whole again.
Sherlock raised himself until he was level with John. He placed their foreheads together. Again, a silent conversation passed between, this time a silent plea for permission. John nodded ever so slightly, before the detective leaned close to place a chaste kiss on John’s lips.
It was more of an affirmation that all of this had transpired, that both of them were here now in each other’s arm’s and not separated by circumstance placed upon them by a long dead man.
A heartbeat passed before they separated, Sherlock’s fingers lingering on John’s face.
“John.” The silence was broken by one word that fell sweetly from the younger man’s lips. It was laced with concern and affection.
“It’s alright Sherlock.” John replied, answering Sherlock’s silent question. A soft smile formed on John’s lips. He placed a hand on the crook of Sherlock’s neck, feeling the tickle of the curls of Sherlock’s hair against his skin. He drew Sherlock close until the detective was resting on his chest once again.
“It’s alright now.” John whispered softly into Sherlock’s ear. Now that we’re home remained unsaid but in that silence they understood.
They stayed there in each other’s embrace, relishing their quiet alcove as time and the world passed them by. The silence was enough for them both.
The only sound that could be heard was their heartbeats resonating together.
Source: waitingat221b
08:40pm; 221b baker street
John’s eyes widened in shock as he felt Sherlock caress his cheek, the warmth seemingly spreading from the consulting detective’s fingertips and making its way to John’s heart. His heart beat faster with each passing moment. The younger man’s gaze held him in a hypnotic state. John’s own brown eyes locked into place with Sherlock’s blue eyes. He saw that the other’s eyes held more than it’s usual mystery. Now it held depths of pain and suffering that John himself often saw when he looked at his own reflection.
The consulting detective, John noticed, didn’t all that good. Compared to a month ago, his appearance seemed to be worse. His long dark curls remained unkempt and reached his shoulders. His eyes had dark bags underneath them, signifying that Sherlock didn’t sleep all that much. His check bones were more prominent than ever, showing just how much weight the younger man had lost. The doctor in John Watson also noted traces of Cocaine abuse, with the consulting detective’s bloodshot eyes and somewhat runny nose. John was conflicted. He tried to quell his first instinct which was to nurse Sherlock and force him to eat something just like old times. He reminded himself that things weren’t the same anymore and that they can’t simply jump back into the routine they once had.
Nineteen months really wasn’t a long time if you looked at it from the perspective that, unless something tragic happens (like falling from a building), you lead a much longer life. However, for Sherlock Holmes, when you have counted every week, day, hour, and minute in between in regards to those nineteen months, they become something more. Sherlock had already lived beyond his life expectancy (mostly due to drugs, but considering the fact he ran from one chaotic scene to the next, that didn’t help either) so anything extra in his mind, wasn’t really icing on the cake as it is said, but rather, just more time for him to spend on Earth solving mysteries and unfolding science. Of course, that all changed to an extent when John stumbled into his life. John was unexpected yet wanted, from the exact moment he walked into Bart’s. And that was still the case now.
And so, those nineteen months aside, Sherlock still wanted John. He wanted John for those nineteen months and now, somehow, bitter sweetness put aside, he felt as if he was owed those nineteen months back. Perhaps John was owed more than him - then again, Sherlock was the selfish one. He was not selfish in this moment - watching as John compassionately spilled his feelings and thoughts and emotions and things that Sherlock would never toy with if he had a choice. Though, he had a choice tonight. He had a choice to continue to ask to see John. He had a choice in how his own feelings were handled. He had a choice for putting himself in this place - standing (less than a meter apart) from John Watson.
And had a choice when he decided to take everything into his own hands.
John Watson wanted answers. With eighteen months of lies and deceit, an explanation was owed to him at the very least. John wasn’t a hateful man, in fact many would say John Watson had a big heart. But John was very much capable of holding grudges. He rarely ever gave his full trust in people. It takes quite a special person for John to trust and confide in. He could count with his fingers the number of people he held in such esteem. It was a defense mechanism he had picked up while growing up the way he did. He came back to 221B to try and make sense of the life he left behind. When he found out that Sherlock was alive, he was beyond livid. It was an anger of circumstance. For eighteen months he lived in the reality that Sherlock Holmes was dead. Everyday John had to get up from bed and condition his mind that his best friend was dead and no longer coming back. John expected he would have relapses. Even now, being in inside the flat brought back memories that would rather be forgotten. It didn’t help matters either that John had spent a lot of his time talking to an imaginary Sherlock Holmes his mind had conjured up. He knew that the Sherlock Holmes before him now was the real one. No figment of John’s imagination could even compare. But one does not simply walk away from hell, especially if it was a hell like John’s had been. It wasn’t that easy.
He came to 221b for answers but the demand for such answers and further accusations that almost fell to his lips vanished in one single act by Sherlock Holmes. The stream of words halted as Sherlock brought up his hand and placed it behind John’s head. John felt lightheaded as Sherlock’s slender hands caressed him tenderly. His mind was laced with confusion at the actions of the consulting detective. Usually, John’s mind was always a step behind Sherlock’s (it was miles behind even) and now wasn’t an exception. His eyes fluttered close as he felt Sherlock’s soft lips press into his own. John got lost in the moment, forgetting whatever thoughts had plagued his mind moments before. There was something about human contact that allowed ideas to be communicated more thoroughly and effectively then words ever could. And one thought came to mind, during this very moment. Despite John’s confused state one thing was evident to him: Sherlock Holmes loved him so.
Source: waitingat221b
08:40pm; 221b baker street
221B Baker Street, Westminster London
- Coming Home -
Time ebbed away as John Watson watched London pass him by. The distinct buildings and cobbled stone streets all coalesced into a blur of colors and shapes. The busy London streets was left behind as the cab rushed through the city, towards a destination he knew well: Home. John rested his forehead against the cool glass pane that separated him from the rest of the world.
Time was never a concept John bothered with. To him there was simply one day after the next. Significant milestones littered his life here and there: time he entered medical school, time he finished his training at Bart’s, time he enlisted in the army, time he got shot, time he got sent back to London. Months and years didn’t matter all that much to him. Not until two years and ten months ago at least. Without even realizing it, John had categorized his life in a matter of months and years: there was the time before Sherlock Holmes, the time with Sherlock Holmes and the time without Sherlock Holmes. The time without Sherlock Holmes stood out amongst the rest. His memories of that time were more vivid than the others. It was also during that time that John Watson found out that there were worse hells than war.
Sherlock came early. He never was a patient man, but in these particular moments, he can be defined as just that. He sat in his chair - the one perched and faced across from John’s own, with idle hands set on the armrests. He had not been home in a very long time and it still did not feel like home, but he felt, instead, as if he was opening the door to 221B for the very first time. A door is just that - a door, but a John (a John Watson) was the actual home.
He had arrived roughly two hours earlier, cloaked in his usual coat and scarf to cover from the faint mid-winter air that settled against the end of January. He had told Mycroft, quietly in the sitting room that he was returning home. Mycroft sat there, slack jawed and almost comatose to what Sherlock had said. Sherlock did not press the conversation and left as quickly as he had come into Mycroft’s life after his fall. He should have felt guilty, in a sense, because in all honesty, everyone knew which brother was the one who was actually alone. And now he was again. Sherlock was not going to come back - not after this, not after John. Once had been enough and 221B was too close to let slide through his fingers.
John’s eyes widened in shock as he felt Sherlock caress his cheek, the warmth seemingly spreading from the consulting detective’s fingertips and making its way to John’s heart. His heart beat faster with each passing moment. The younger man’s gaze held him in a hypnotic state. John’s own brown eyes locked into place with Sherlock’s blue eyes. He saw that the other’s eyes held more than it’s usual mystery. Now it held depths of pain and suffering that John himself often saw when he looked at his own reflection.
The consulting detective, John noticed, didn’t all that good. Compared to a month ago, his appearance seemed to be worse. His long dark curls remained unkempt and reached his shoulders. His eyes had dark bags underneath them, signifying that Sherlock didn’t sleep all that much. His check bones were more prominent than ever, showing just how much weight the younger man had lost. The doctor in John Watson also noted traces of Cocaine abuse, with the consulting detective’s bloodshot eyes and somewhat runny nose. John was conflicted. He tried to quell his first instinct which was to nurse Sherlock and force him to eat something just like old times. He reminded himself that things weren’t the same anymore and that they can’t simply jump back into the routine they once had.
Source: waitingat221b
221B Baker Street, Westminster London
- Coming Home -
Time ebbed away as John Watson watched London pass him by. The distinct buildings and cobbled stone streets all coalesced into a blur of colors and shapes. The busy London streets was left behind as the cab rushed through the city, towards a destination he knew well: Home. John rested his forehead against the cool glass pane that separated him from the rest of the world.
Time was never a concept John bothered with. To him there was simply one day after the next. Significant milestones littered his life here and there: time he entered medical school, time he finished his training at Bart’s, time he enlisted in the army, time he got shot, time he got sent back to London. Months and years didn’t matter all that much to him. Not until two years and ten months ago at least. Without even realizing it, John had categorized his life in a matter of months and years: there was the time before Sherlock Holmes, the time with Sherlock Holmes and the time without Sherlock Holmes. The time without Sherlock Holmes stood out amongst the rest. His memories of that time were more vivid than the others. It was also during that time that John Watson found out that there were worse hells than war.
Source: waitingat221b
12 Charing Cross Road, Westminster London
- Going Home -
John gazed at the fire that crackled merrily in front of him. Shadows were cast upon the familiar flat that wasn’t quite home. The once welcoming walls were now tainted with doubt and uncertainty. The couch beneath him felt unnatural. For the last thirty minutes he’d been shifting in his seat, trying to find a comfortable spot. He sighed and slumped in his chair, giving it up as a bad job. He gazed at the teacup that wasn’t his own, and drank the tea that wasn’t prepared by his own hands. He looked at the telly running in the background. The usual channel he watched wasn’t available so he was perusing aimlessly until he found something remotely interesting. John discarded the remote, stopping at some random channel. He tried to get into the story, but found his mind slipping elsewhere. No matter what angle he looked at it, Charring Cross road wasn’t home.
John sighed in exasperation, placing his head in his hands. Despite all the distractions present in front of him, his mind was consumed by one thing: Sherlock Holmes. As the days slowly progressed and Sherlock’s texts became more frequent, John couldn’t tear his thoughts away from thoughts concerning the consulting detective. John found himself at a crossroads torn between wanting to leave 221B behind once and for all or going back to the place he wanted to call home.
He grabbed his phone from his pocket, seeing Sherlock’s text messages there. He wanted to go home so badly, yet he couldn’t bring himself to do just that. He knew where home truly was: 221B Baker Street.
Unknown to John, he was being watched.
*
John Watson wasn’t the only one who was distracted as of late. Helen had been preparing dinner. She stirred the contents of the pot absentmindedly, moving the ladle in a clockwise manner. Her thoughts turned back on the months when her and John started dating and how different things had been lately.
Coming from a marriage that fell apart before her very eyes, Helen had an aversion to relationships in general, but John Watson was different from the rest. She recalled reasoning to herself about the risks of opening her heart again. John Watson made her want to open her heart, to make herself vulnerable. She considered John one of her best friends during their time together in St. Bart’s. There was nothing like medical school to draw people closer yet the world also drew them apart.
In the same way that she gone through her own hardships, the John Watson that came back from Afghanistan was but a shell of the former John. Yet, she knew what had caused the sorrowful look to haunt his eyes. It was one Sherlock Holmes. His death had broken John in more ways then one, and now, Sherlock’s return seemed to have shattered his already ailing heart.
She withdrew the ladle from the pot and placed the cover to allow the contents to simmer. She wiped her hands on her apron before discarding the apron. She walked towards the living room. John’s name almost graced her lips but what she saw gave her pause. She was framed in the doorway, gazing upon the scene in the living room. She watched as John struggled. She knew his mind was in turmoil. The John who had once been so enthusiastic and amusing now became the brooding doctor she saw before him. John’s thoughts always seemed like a thousand miles away. Their conversations were usually one sided with mere shrugs of the shoulder, noncommittal grunts or an occasional curt yes’s or no’s on John’s end.
She signed and placed her hand in her pocket, feeling the small package she had always kept on her person. She traced the edges of the box before wrapping a hand around the package. She sighed and looked at John once again.
John Watson wasn’t hers. John Watson had never been hers.
*
John started as he heard his name being called. It wasn’t the deep tenor and melodious voice of one Sherlock voice but the soft and delicate call of Helen. Helen called him again, wanting to get his attention. He tried to shove the cobwebs from his mind and focus on Helen. John didn’t even notice Helen come behind him and wrap her arms around his torso. The scent of lilac’s filled his lungs as Helen bent down and hugged him. A month ago, it would have been a comforting scent but now it just seemed so wrong. Before he could say anything though, Helen broke the connection. She strode purposefully around the couch and stood in front of John.
“Why are you doing this to yourself John?” Her steely voice echoed around the flat. John looked at the green eyes that was once capable of illuminating and keeping his darkness at bay. What he saw there wasn’t anger but resignation and determination. That was the strength of Helen Rose.
John looked up at her in confusion. “What are you talking about, Helen?”
John saw the way in which Helen watched him, taking in every detail, not missing the bags under his eyes or the way in which his brows were knit it frustration. Even his jumper was scruffy and his hair unkempt. John saw how she mouthed his name again and again, in a silent ‘John’.
Helen sighed before looking away. An intense sadness crossed her features for a moment before being replaced by that steely determination he had characterized the woman with. Helen knelt down before locking her green eyes with John’s own brown ones. John blinked under the intensity of her gaze, fidgeting slightly, waiting for her to answer the question.
“Stop lying to yourself.” If four words could rattle John even more, it would be these. There had been a constant debate in John’s mind about choosing between Helen and Sherlock. John never wanted to make that choice because it would have been unfair to one party or the other. John was never one to play with hearts and choosing at all didn’t seem right. So he did what, at the time, seemed like the rational and logical thing to do: he ran away. He ran away from Sherlock and from the past. By choosing to give Helen that key to 221B Baker Street he had resigned himself to that future with her. John even entertained the prospect of family and kids. Yet, upon Sherlock’s return the prospective future that seemed so bright now dulled in comparison to the past he left behind.
“I…” John stammered not quite sure how to respond.
Helen raised her hands and caressed John’s face in a tender motion so familiar.
“John.” At this moment, the cobwebs in his mind cleared and he was able to focus solely on the woman in front of him.
“Helen.” He whispered back. While Helen’s voice was calm and caring, John’s was laced with confusion and uncertainty. It seemed as if that one word alone allowed Helen to make whatever decision she was weighing in her mind.
She fished out a familiar blue package from her pocket. She opened it to reveal the duplicate key of 221B Baker Street. She traced it fondly with her fingertips before placing it back in the box. She replaced the lid. She grabbed the underside of John’s hand, exposing his palm to her. She placed the blue box tenderly on his hand before closing his fingers around it.
“Helen.” John said, trying to push the box toward her, but Helen kept a firm grip on his closed fist.
“Helen.” John tried again. “I wanted you to move in with me.. I..” Even as John said it he knew his heart was no longer in it. The struggle was evident in his troubled brown eyes. “I… I’m sorry.”
Helen placed a finger on John’s lips, preventing him from uttering anymore words of apology. “Stop lying to yourself. That” she said, gesturing to the blue box. “Doesn’t belong to me. Not anymore.”
John stammered, trying to reason with Helen but Helen talked over him. “I told you once that I could never replace Sherlock Holmes, a man who clearly has found a place in your heart. I told you once that he will stay there forever.” She placed a hand on John’s chest, feeling the heartbeat there. “And he’s there now.”
Helen considered her next words. “I never asked you to forget or to let go and I’m not asking that now.”
John looked as Helen tumbled through the words. “All I asked was for you to let me in.” She caressed John’s cheeks, running her hand down his face. “And you did.”
“Helen.” John said weakly, not quite sure what to say.
“Just go to him, John. Go home.” John’s eyes widened as Helen’s words struck his very core. Helen stood up and stepped away from John.
John looked down, tearing his eyes away from Helen’s green ones. “I’m sorry.” He said remorsefully. “I never wanted to make this decision. You’ve given me so much and I couldn’t even reciprocate.” He looked up again, wanting desperately for Helen to see. Yet he needn’t have defended himself.
“I know.”
“I loved you.”
“I know.”
“I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you.”
“I know. I did too.”
John stood up shakily, thoughts of home entering his mind. He was going home and the mere thought of it sent shivers down John’s spine. Mechanically, he grabbed his coat before making his way towards the door. He placed a hand on the doorknob, turning it slowly before opening the door wide.
“John.” John hesitated before looking back at Helen, the woman who had saved him in his time of need. The woman who became his beacon of light when Sherlock, his sun, had disappeared. The woman who became his moon, his guiding light in the dark abyss. The woman who simply cared for John Watson and who loved him enough to know what was best for him.
“When you leave that door, I won’t be here if you return.” I know you won’t return remained unsaid but both of them knew that.
John nodded. He turned but paused before his feet crossed the threshold of the door. He turned back and rushed towards Helen enveloping her in one last hug.
“Thank you. For everything.” He saw the tears that almost fell as he broke away from Helen. He looked away to allow her to wipe the tears away discretely.
“Go.” Helen said quietly.
And so John did. He ran towards the place he knew he could be happy: 221B Baker Street.
John Watson was going home.
Source: waitingat221b
