Keeping the Strength to Fight

Chapter 9- John

John had managed to change his working schedule to suit both his jobs. Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays he worked at the hospital, whereas on Wednesdays, Fridays and Saturdays he worked at Scotland yard, helping Lestrade and the team with policing. The routine was tiring, sure. But at least he felt like he had accomplished something by the end of the week.

Lestrade had been right in saying it wasn't as exiting as working with Sherlock, things didn't move as quickly, but he enjoyed it nonetheless. And he usually put his own spin on things anyway.

Just the other week he had been involved in a drugs bust, something which caused him immense amusement, and was searching the flat of a mid twenties couple. Both of whom were obviously going through withdrawal symptoms. While the other officers ripped apart every room in search of the hidden drugs, John had remembered the case involving Irene Adler, and about how they had found the safe in her house. He thought the same technique would be worth a shot, especially in the woman's obvious discomfort, so he hit the fire alarm. Sure enough, the man leapt up swearing at the sudden noise, whilst the woman shot her head around and stared at the area of floor in the corner of the room.

As the officers were leaping around under the sprinklers wondering what had triggered the alarm, John had casually walked to the corner and ripped up the badly upholstered carpet, revealing a rotten and oddly cut shape in the floor boards. He peered in, noticing strait away the tightly packed Nike bag sitting at the bottom of the pit, and smiled smugly as he turned to the rest of the room.

"I think were done here, let's wrap it up." He had called to the slightly surprised officers.

It took a couple of seconds for the room to become animated again, but all at once the strange freeze-frame ended and the officers moved to arrest the couple, as they began screaming out the usual nonsense about how they've never seen it before in their lives.

John smiled at the memory, this was the third week of his new job, and he couldn't deny how good it felt to be back arresting people and solving crimes. Ever since it had sunk in that Sherlock was gone, he felt a empyness in the pit of his stomach. He knew his life could never be the same as it was, it felt like coming back from Afghanistan all over again. Mycroft was right when he said he missed the war, but having only spent a few months at home living a 'normal' life -before being thrown into a new one with Sherlock- he never really got a chance to adjust back into day to day life. This job, he reasoned, was like a transition; and it was helping to ease that emptyness. It was halfway between a normal life, and an exiting one. Something John hoped would be just what the doctor ordered.

John stood up. It was Sunday, and so far he had spent his morning simply sitting and reading the newspaper. He wanted to go out and do something, but there was never anything to do. He walked to the window and looked out over the London skyline, admiring the way it glittered in the morning sun. Something caught his eye however. A man, at the top of the road, looking up at the window.

With black curly hair.

A long black coat.

And a blue scarf.

John closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"That's not real, it can't be." He whispered to himself, then looked back out the window.

The figure was still there.

"Ok, so it is real." John said.

Stepping back from the window he picked up his gun and shoved it in the holder on his belt, whilst thinking of all the possible explanations to the man outside.

"One, he's alive and has bought another coat."

John wouldn't let himself believe that one.

"Two, its a complete coincidence."

No, it was too similar to just be coincidence.

"Three, someone decided to play a prank on me."

On thinking this, John got mad. Very mad. He stormed out of 221B in a rage. The man saw him, but stayed where he was. John found this unnerving and began to review his conclusion, but headed over anyway. He tried to hide his anger as he walked closer to the man.

"Is there something I can help you with?" He asked with a hint of spite.

The man stayed silent, but pointed down to the metal grate beneath Johns feet.

John looked down and a puff of steam blew up into his face.

"I'm sorry, what is it you're trying to..." He started, but suddenly felt woozy and unstable. His vision flickered and his legs became weak.

Limp, he dropped to the floor, unable to move.

"Wh-who-"

"We are the last people you will ever meet Dr Watson."

"We...?" He managed to say.

"Yes. Now sleep, and you shall find out later..." The man said mockingly.

"...Before we dispose of you." He ended with a smile.