The Game is On

Dreams of Reichenbach

"Sherlock!"

John watched as the consulting detective, the man he felt stronger feelings for than anyone else he'd ever met, plummeted to the ground from the 4-story building.

Tears stung behind his eyes as he saw his friend, his detective, lying on the ground surrounded by so much blood it almost made him faint. He was an army doctor! It's as if he'd never seen blood before.

"Let me through, please," John pleaded, voice cracking awkwardly, "No please he's my friend."

"Oh, Jesus, no..."

The authorities brought Sherlock into St. Bart's hospital, even though John knew there was no chance he survived. A small part of John believed the detective had something up his sleeve, that there was still hope, but the hope only got dimmer and dimmer.

Almost a month after the incident, John found himself dressed in black, headed to the cemetery with Mrs. Hudson. She went on about how angry Sherlock had made her during his lifetime, then left him alone to grieve for a moment.

"You told me once," John couldn't believe he was talking to himself, but he thought in case Sherlock's "spirit" could hear him, he just wanted to say these words, "That you weren't a hero. And there were times I didn't even think you were human, but...You were the best man, the most amazing person that I have ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. So, there."

He started to walk off, but he found he couldn't make himself turn away, that there was still more to say.

"I was so alone, and I owe you so much. But, I ask one more thing one more miracle, for me, Sherlock..."

"Don't. Be. Dead."

A year passed by and John's wish hadn't come true. He'd met a woman, she was nice, but he really couldn't bring himself to love at a time like this. As much as he wished he would stop, he found himself heading to the neighbourhood pub almost every night, in hopes of drinking away his sorrows.

One night, two years after the incident, John felt his sorrows particularly weighing, so he headed to the pub for some vodka.

An hour in, he was feeling quite intoxicated. He thought he'd noticed the bartender had changed, but it wasn't important.

"Would you like some more, sir?"

Was that...Concern in the bartender's voice? No. Couldn't be. John's just drunk.

"Yeah...Uh...What ya got?" The doctor's voice slurred.

"Euh, some of this...Wine...Classic! Like a face from the past."

It sounded somewhat like the bartender didn't know what he was doing.

"Hmm...Surprise me."

The bartender may or may not have muttered something under his breath, but John didn't care. Even in his buzzed state, he cherished how the bartender's tall figure reminded him of his old flatmate. He dressed nicely, black pants and a dark purple blouse.

Wait, did the bartender have...Dark curls?

Nah. John's just seeing things again. He always does, especially when he's drunk. All this thinking of Sherlock has made John think the bartender has dark curls!

And cupid's-bow lips.

And defined cheekbones.

And the clearest blue eyes.

John shut his eyes a moment, "Oh, my God, I've officially gone mad."

"Hello, John."

"Sher...No..."