When Worlds Collide

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John Watson absentmindedly stirred his tea.  He absolutely must eat something today. But how could he? How could he drink, when this teacup had touched a dead man’s lips?  How could he stand on this floor, when the ghost of his best friend’s footsteps were imprinted upon it?  John knew he was going crazy, mostly as a result of staying in this damn flat.  Seemed a sin to leave, yet eternal suffering to stay - it didn’t matter, though, because John couldn’t afford to move anyway.  

He pushed the tea away, sickened.  If only he could speak about it, to someone, to anyone.  If only Mrs Hudson didn’t cry herself to sleep every night, or if his therapist hadn’t moved.

If only Sherlock hadn’t jumped off that damn building.

That was it.  He couldn’t deal with this torture any longer.  John leaped up, grabbed his jacket, and whisked out the door with such fervor that one could almost believe he didn’t go through this pathetic process every day.  

The cold London air whistled through the city, drowning out his thoughts. The wind sliced at his cheeks, a frigid reminder of his existence.  John didn’t stop, he walked as fast as he could without attracting his attention as the crisp November weather slashed at his neck because in honor of Sherlock, he refused to wear a scarf.  Past the bakery, past the jewelry shop, past the alley with the tall, dark-haired man -

John Watson halted, as if a physical entity restrained any movement.  With rigid joints paralyzed by fear and maybe a tiny bit of hope, he took three painstaking steps backward.  Four freezing breaths exited his lungs before John turned his head slightly to the right.

Nothing.  The alley was empty as usual, and John would have felt injured, if that had been the first occurrence of what he was sure were hallucinations.  A burning disappointment in his stomach, he continued his quick, heartbreaking pace with his head down until John ran headlong into a warm body.  “ - Unf; sorry mate -”

“Hello, John,” a smooth voice, sharp as a switchblade, responded.  John looked up to see dark curls bouncing in the wind alongside a signature indigo scarf.   The stormy green-gray eyes of Sherlock Holmes shone, very much alive, into those of John Watson’s.  His usually-snarky mouth was turned upward into an anticipant grin.  “We have a case.”

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