Goodbye, Shadow

Before he met Sherlock Holmes, John Watson had been an existence - not a life at all. The bullet that had shattered his bone and torn into his subclavian artery in a sense had killed him; he had been sent back to England barely breathing, where he occupied a shabby, less-than-desirable hotel room like a ghost haunting a home. John echoed around the room day by day, but he hardly left - he hardly did anything, honestly.

He was sickly and hated every moment there, but where else was he to go and what else was he to do? He had no family nearby he wished to see, no friends, knew little of what he was to do with himself. He was cooped up like a bird with a broken wing, running into the bars and never quite taking off. But then, life began again when he ran by Stamford in the park.

Stamford wasn't truly a friend of John's, but a dresser that had been in his department at Bart's - at this point in time, any familiar face was well above welcomed. But bumping into Stamford wasn't how he remembered the beginning of it all - of the most amazing and dangerous adventure of his life.

He remembered the beginning as walking into a chemistry lab behind Stamford to see a lanky, dark figure with curly, dark hair, asking for a cell phone without hardly a glance at the two. The exact moment John knew he was in for something amazing was when the tall, pale-eyed stranger said three words that struck him to the very bone; "Iraq or Afghanistan?" That was exactly how John Watson remembered it - and he remembered watching his shadow recede from the room as he left, giving him hardly a choice on whether he truly wanted to go to the flat or not - but of course he had. No matter how off-put he was by the nonchalant, off-handed remark, John was more than just a bit curious about the enigmatic stranger. And he followed that shadow right to where it had asked him to be; all the way to 221B Baker Street.

It didn't take long at all for what would once again by his life to be turned completely on its head. After meeting Ms. Hudson and Detective Inspector Lestrade, John had learned a few things about his flat mate. One; he occupied a job with no pay, no public recognition, and a self-proclaimed title of consulting detective. The world's only, as he mentioned once or twice. Two; he had just about as many friends as John himself. Three; he could tell you your entire life story before you could even get out a 'hello.' 

John's life began again when Sherlock and his brilliant, strange, dangerous world breathed meaning back into him, and he had a purpose once again. Whether they were plunging nose-first into chaotic, explosive cases, watching crap telly, or playing a heated game of Cluedo, every day was interesting in a way all its own. But he didn't just stop going to his therapist - he stopped using an object that was a extension of himself.

When the door opened and he saw his cane - the one that had been synonymous to moving, walking, doing anything - he realized that without a doubt, he was going to enjoy living in 221B with this spectacular, eccentric consulting detective. His shadow wasn't accompanied by a cane now; it had a friend in another human's shadow. His dependence on the tool was gone, but now he relied on something else entirely, even though he wasn't aware of it. John Watson relied on Sherlock Holmes.

That was exactly how it went for the longest time - John didn't need his cane and he didn't need therapy. He didn't get bored, he didn't have nightmares, and he had a place in the world again. His blog wasn't the only thing he had to occupy his time, and now that things were happening, he woke every day (sometimes to Sherlock's bloody shouting about being bored or Ms. Hudson being frightened by an experiment hanging around the refrigerator) with the sole thought of what kind of chaos they would partake in later. John never thought of what he would be doing - they were just part of one whole being now. Two men - friends, colleagues, what should he call them? - from Baker Street, solving crimes and diving nose-first into the most frightfully amazing dangers he'd ever faced. Even with the constant insults and condescending behavior of his flat mate, John was thrilled to live there alongside him. And that shadow he'd spied leaving the lab was always close to his now.

There was a day, however, that had sent him reeling. It was a day where everything that was built back up with Sherlock's help crumbled, and it happened within sheer minutes. For a while things had been absolutely hectic, and not in the usual way - Jim Moriarty, the crowned scheming devil of Britain, had opened a bank, worn the Crown Jewels, and shut off security in a prison just to show off some of what was within his incredible power. Then he'd been released from jail to walk free; to go back to whatever hellish place he worked from and continue on with his inane plans that John couldn't begin to comprehend. He was just as eccentric as Sherlock - but so much scarier, so much more conniving. Even when they were put under suspicion of murders, that wasn't what sent John's life spinning back into a jumbled mess of tangled-up threads of things he couldn't quite get a hold of.

It was the day that he'd been called outside of St. Bartholomew's. The day he was cast into Sherlock Holmes's shadow, and the day he watched the shadow be bathed in red on the concrete. The day where Sherlock's heart hadn't been burnt out - but John's had as Sherlock told his friend that he was a fraud. He wasn't just told that Sherlock was a fake; he was told that all the time he'd spent with him feeling like he could breathe again was untrue and fake. His heart had been burnt out. It had been seared, scorched, set on fire with a new, harmful kind of flame. That day was utter, bitter hell - and it lasted a lifetime.

Now, Sherlock's shadow was missing. It didn't walk alongside him, it didn't even dash ahead on some mad, flamboyant revelation of a case. It didn't run down Baker Street after its owner, and it didn't join his in the flat. He visited his friend's grave often, but never returned to the flat on Baker Street. Because without a second shadow, 221B was lonely. Without Sherlock playing his violin at the window, or running across the furniture rampantly shouting "Bored!" the flat was lifeless. Without Sherlock's shadow, it was empty. It wasn't home.

John Watson didn't just miss Sherlock Holmes. He didn't just miss his friend, his flat mate, his savior and all of his sociopathic tendencies - it wasn't just the violin and the tea and the 'experiments' that he missed. It wasn't only the frayed blue scarf or the long black coat with the red buttonholes.

He even missed his shadow.