Sherlock Oneshots

Affliction of Men

Johnlock Bromance

John Hamish Watson is a man of great courage; not only for serving in the Afghan war and coming out with a bullet wound dug into his shoulder, but for also living as a flatmate with Sherlock Holmes: World's Only Consulting Detective for eighteen months. He was unsure how such a man as brilliant as Sherlock would become an acquaintance of someone so ordinary. Despite his thought, Sherlock impressed John greatly, going from his assistant - running around the crevices of London's alleys - to best and only friend.

Only, John was wrong, he wasn't expecting what came around the corner.

More like what came from the roof; like a dark, unfathomable angel, falling from a concrete cloud in the torpid sky.

Sherlock Holmes plumited like a stone falling heavy into the arms of the Earth. And John was there to witness his soul mate self-destruct. Sherlock Holmes wasn't the only one who died that day, so did John Watson.

John saw apparitions of Sherlock wherever he went, a brimming coal coat cascading down the spine of a plum, tight shirt, with it's elegant collar concealing sharp cheekbones and a cerulean scarf. He would only be able to catch a glance of two beryl gleaming eyes before the visions twisted down an alleyway. John was always tempted to follow, but he was certain it was only his mind playing tricks; just like with his leg when he first met Sherlock.

Little did he know that it was really him, keeping an eye on John to make sure he's safe whilst dismantling Moriarty's 'web'. As soon as he had defeated the last of Moriarty's minions, Sherlock - ardently - texted Mycroft to send him a car en route to John's new flat, and impatiently sat in the back passenger seat. Eventually, he had arrived, and dismissed the car.

Sherlock felt emotions filter through his alpine body, fear and happiness and relief and a pinch of hope. He dexterously opened the front door, where - collaterally - John stood, about to open the door himself on the opposite side.

"Oh God, no." John - only just - verbalized.

"Look, John, I'm -" Before Sherlock could apologise, John cut him off in a flurry of blue emotions.

"No, not again!" He processed, turning round so Sherlock was in the apartment and he was now stepping out the front door, "I know you're just a figment of my mad head, so leave me alone, please!" John strode into the road, eyes blurred with near-escaping tears.

"John wait!" This wasn't going right.

"NO! I'm tired of all this shit." He spun on his heals to face Sherlock, to show Sherlock what he's created in the two years he deceived John. A sad, lonely, depressed man.

"John," Sherlock croaked, choking back the emotions as much as possible, "Please."

"You don't understand, do you? You think you can just break into my home and waltz into my life again, and then flutter away again, only to haunt me again in my dreams? Look at what these two years have done to me."

And to hell Sherlock centralized his gaze on John, who was slouched in the middle of the road, with fat drops of rain dampening the mood even further. Both men were so focussed on each others eyes, that neither heard or noticed the drunken driver and his battered car swerve into John's right.

"Oh Christ, JOHN!?" Sherlock slipped on the wet pavement, his only intentions anymore on John and his broken, bloodied body. He tried deducing John's injuries and how serious he was, but his mind was fogged up by the same name on repeat: 'John'. The imbecile-of-a-person drunken driver had, supposedly, rung 999 but his slurred words did no good, so he'd buggered off to weep over his miserable life. Locals were gathered around John's and Sherlock's afflicted bodies, and rang the Services. Sherlock feebly held John's wrist in his slender fingers, searching for something, anything.

Only to find nothing.

{ A•N why are 99% of my fanfics sad? }