That Ship Has Sailed

John & Sherlock II

The nightmares that plagued John Watson were not all of the war. Though most were of the combat, the amount of nightmares about the one's he'd lost were growing more frequent. This night, he dreamed of his commanding officer who had, unknowing to John at the time, broken his heart. After that, it was the man who transferred to his unit, and finally, the woman who had saved his life before he deployed to Afghanistan. All of these people, he'd thought to be the one his name had meant for him, but as he got the news of each one's tragic passing, he knew it could not have been any of them.

The morning of the day that changed his life, he woke from a nightmare in cold sweats and his hands shook terribly. Later that day, he went for a walk, needing to get away from his overdue rent problems given that his pension was not sustainable for living in London.

On his walk, he met an old friend who told him he had a friend who had a similar problem to John and was looking for a flat mate. Within the hour, John was walking in to a room of Saint Bart's Hospital. His friend held the door for him and John entered, limping with the assist of his cane into the room. He didn't pay much attention to the talking until he looked up and made eye contact with the man his friend had been referring to. His hair was unruly with curls and his eyes, a sea foam green. John quickly felt self-conscious for noticing such a thing, but as soon as the man spoke, he had no doubt in his mind that this man was William. His William.

Within ten minutes, however, the same sinking and nightmarish feeling took over his mind as the man, after talking for quite a long time without really saying much, finally told John his name.

"Ah well," John thought to himself, "At the very least I'll have cheaper rent and a rather interesting friend."

Interesting did not cover their relationship. Life with Sherlock Holmes was anything but boring and involved interesting places and new things that John had never experienced, even through his years of service. He grew very fond of the man he shared a flat with and the two became best friends very quickly. Though neither knew how to express himself properly, there were those moments when both knew, without saying a word, what the other was thinking.

Just as John was feeling close enough to the man, after close to two years of living in the same flat, something happened that threw him for a loop. Just when he was readying himself to confess for the second time in his life, the name that was to be his soulmate, he found himself standing before a grave.

A year later, he still made frequent visits.

A year after that, they became less frequent as the memory pained him too greatly.

One visit, however, as he approached with fresh flowers, a suited man stood before the grave that John had not seen in quite some time.

"Ah, I should have known you'd be the one replenishing the flowers," the man said pompously.

"Yes, well," John cleared his throat and set the flowers down, "Everyone knows you wouldn't do it."

"Quite right, John," the man replied. "He told me something once, you know. Sherlock told me the name of his soul mate."

John was startled that this subject would come up and with the most unexpected person. John pursed his lips and looked down in thought, wondering if he cared enough anymore to stay and find out what the name was.

"Don't you want to know what it was?"

"I've told mine only once, why should I care what anyone else's is?" John said, looking up at the man.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, "If it makes you feel better about the subject, I don't care what yours is."

"But you're perfectly willing to tell me a dead man's? Have you no respect, Mycroft?"

"I'll tell you mine as well, then," Mycroft replied, his tone clearly irritated and uninterested.

"All right then. What is it?"

"Gregory," Mycroft replied, looking down his nose at John.

"Greg--as in Lestrade?"

"I don't know any others," Mycroft said, "Not that it matters. The minds of the average human are quite boring and I find their company intolerable."

"So you're going to let him go without anyone for the rest of his life because you're a pompous ass?"

Mycroft turned to face John, "I did not come here to be insulted. I came to speak with you and as soon as I say what I came to say, I will be on my way."

"Right, then, get on with it," John said, turning to face the man.

"John."

"John? What, me? I was Sherlock's--But-I'm not his. It had to be a different John."  

"He knew from the moment he saw you. 'Big brother,' he told me, 'I've found my John. Any luck with Lestrade yet?'. He was quite awful, wasn't he? Well, in any case," Mycroft babbled on, "I will miss the poor bastard. I won't be visiting again, though. Too much emotion for me, I think. One last farewell, for sentiment's sake. William Sherlock Scott Holmes, you were the dumber brother, but--"

"Hold on," John interrupted.

"What is it now?" Mycroft asked impatiently.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes?"

"The man never told you his name?"

John paused, looking from the grave stone to Mycroft and back again.

"Why the frown, Doctor Watson?"

"I never knew his name was William..."

"Why the hell does that matter now?"

"Mine was William..."