(A BBC Sherlock Fan Fic) John Watson: 2 Years Later...

I’m stepping out of a cab. Slowly making my way over to the place where I’m meeting Sarah…And she’ll be disappointed. I’m twenty-five minutes late.

I really have no excuse, since I spent those twenty minutes staring blankly at the large smiley face that…He…spray painted on the wall before blowing it up with a gun.

I shake myself free of the painful mental image I’ve just given myself and walk into the coffee shop, where Sarah is (hopefully) still waiting.

She is, of course. The corners of my mouth twitch for the first time since the accident happened two months ago.  Of course she’d be the patient one.

“Sorry I’m late.” I slide into the chair across from her, and she smiles lightly, forgivingly. That’s the way everyone is now. Forgiving of everything I do. Every minor misdemeanor I have. Every thing that usually would cause irritation if…

I shake myself again,  almost completely unable to think his name. Even after two years. I can’t let this take over my life, even though it already has, in a way.

Sarah is still smiling at me. I manage the smallest of grimaces in return. It’s as if the muscles in my face are underused, won’t comply with the simplest commands from my brain, even.

“How are you, John?” Sarah says gently, trying not to startle me, since I’m obviously off in my own parallel universe. At this thought, I actually chuckle quietly, mouth closed. Parallel universe, I think. Mind palace…

I take a breath and look at Sarah. “Um, great.”

I’m lying. She looks at me sympathetically because it’s quite obvious, really.

“How are things at the flat?” What she’s really asking is, do I want to move in with her, or the other way around. What she wants to say is that she’s worried. That she wants to be closer to me all the time, like he was. To…take his place.

“Quiet.” My voice is firm. We’ve already had this conversation…many times. I don’t want to move out of the flat, even to live with her. And anyone living there with me would just be…bizarre? Wrong word…Demented? Too harsh…Uncomfortable, painful, surreal…those might work a little better. “Things have been quiet,” I finish, trying to indicate that the conversation is over.

She gets the hint and drops the subject. But I know better. It’s only temporary. She’ll bring it up in a few days, or a week, or maybe even two, if I’m lucky. And I’ll have to have awful imaginings of her sitting in his old chair, staring into a book, while I try to tell myself that it’s good to have a flatmate that isn’t so exotic.

Sarah clears her throat, uncomfortable. That’s how most people are around me now. Uncomfortable and unsure of what to say. Because for some reason, I’m to be treated as a living, breathing, ticking time bomb. When, if the wrong thing is said, might lose control and break down sobbing…or simply shut down, stop talking, and walk out of wherever I am. Walk back to the flat, walk back to my once wonderful home. 

I don’t realize that I’ve even gotten up from my seat until I’m pushing the door open and walking straight away from the coffee shop. Towards Baker Street. Towards the flat, where is the only place I can seem to think, or attempt to.

Well, that date went wonderfully, I think, mentally berating myself for being a dolt and walking out on Sarah five minutes into the damned thing. 

I stop in front of the door marked 221B and fumble for the flat key. My hands are shaking from…what? Anxiety? Pain? Stress? Loss of a very dear friend? Prolonged, self induced suffering? It’s hard to tell…mostly because over the last two years, they’ve all blended together into one huge armada, which causes me grief at the drop of a hat.