Summary: "You've reached Sherlock Holmes. For the love of God, if you're going to leave a message, at least make it an interesting one. If this is Mycroft, then piss off." / A series of voicemails John left Sherlock throughout their time together.
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Looks like #JohnSherlock 's "WINGS OF LIGHT AND DARK ILLUSION" has found a good home! #patronage #boardgamenight #shoutoutSam&Molly #vaultartpgh #ACHIEVA
One moment he’s gone to bed, trying to come to terms with Sherlock’s death. The next, he wakes up in that dingy old flat that he could barely afford he lived in before he met Sherlock Holmes; the madman that changed his life forever.
---
Strange things used to happen to John Watson all the time. He was used to it. He was used to the rush of adrenaline, the quickening of his heartbeat, and the way that his body stood as still as it possibly could; waiting.
He missed it more than anything, but most of all, he missed the catalyst to the danger. The mad genius that was Sherlock Holmes.
So when two months after Sherlock’s funeral, when the large cresting wave of initial grief has washed over him, the worst of it finally over; he finds himself wishing for more exciting times. That first week as he weathered through the lingering grief and wistfulness, he goes to sleep with a wish on his lips.
“I wish I could go back,” he sighs as he pulls the covers over himself and turns off the bedside lamp.
“-back to the beginning.”
How fortunate, John Watson was, that someone was there to listen to his wish.
---
John Watson wakes in the crate of a room that he could barely afford before meeting Sherlock Holmes in late January.
He wakes from a nightmare; a different one from the one he would have had two years ago. A dream where dusty desert air is replaced by the wet humid air that is London’s winter, where the sound of gunfire is replaced by an odd sort of ringing in his ears, and where the dead soldier under his hands is a body face down in the street- but the message is the same as it was two years ago. He’s failed, he’s failed.
He scrubs at his eyes, trying not to let himself fall mercy to his grief, but it’s still there; just as much a part of him as the ugly scar on his shoulder.
It takes him a moment to realize his surroundings, taking the space between waking and realization to collect himself. But when he does, he can do nothing but stare at the rest of his flat in astonishment.
“What on earth is going on?”
For a moment, he has the fleeting, horrible thought that the last two years were just some sort of elaborate dream. That it was an invention of his subconscious to help stem the loneliness and despair that he felt when he had been invalidated home. But as soon as the thought came, he dismissed it. If there was one thing that John knew, knew to the very marrow of his bones; it was that Sherlock Holmes was real.
He finds the mobile sitting innocently on his desk, charging. He fumbles with it for a moment, noticing the lack of scratches and the pristine screen that turns on with a push of button.
20/01/10
Oh, okay then. The impossible just happened, thought John as he went to sit on his lumpy mattress, clutching the phone in one hand.
Surely this was a dream, and manifestation of his grief, wishing for better times. Wishing for a time when Sherlock was still alive, would annoy him by leaving body parts all over flat, playing the violin at three in the morning, and by being alive and himself.
