My friend and I thought of a little scene, an silly idea of how John and Sherlock will be reunited. So, we're both writing the same scene. I'm not sure if she'll be posting hers, but here's mine. This is my first attempt at fanfiction.
John Watson couldn’t stand being alone anymore. He needed to speak to someone, anyone about nearly anything. Anything but Sherlock Holmes.
Mrs. Hudson was right downstairs, but she was useless. Before long, the conversations would turn to holes in the walls and eyeballs in the microwave.
Harry wanted nothing to do with him, that wasn’t new.
Mycroft? John wasn’t even sure the elder Holmes even knew how to hold a human conversation.
Molly? He kicked himself for not thinking of her first. With a heavy sigh, John lifted himself out of the recliner and shrugged on his coat. His fingers clenched around the handle of his cane, he limped down the stairs and out of his tiny flat.
The new flat was within spitting distance of Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson had moved along with him. John liked to think of it as a comfort, a little bit of home, but in reality, she couldn’t afford to keep the old flat without 221B rented out. It didn’t matter that she’d left Baker Street; England had fallen with Sherlock. At least to John it had.
He hailed a cab and slid into the backseat, so lost in his own thoughts that he almost didn’t hear the cabbie ask, “Where to, mate?” He told him where.
On the way, John couldn’t stop himself from being suspicious of the cabbie after that one had given them so much trouble three years ago. Had it only been three years? He slipped a wad of cash at the cabbie without even counting it. Leaning on the cane, he rang the doorbell.
Inside the little flat, Molly Hooper dropped her tea with a start. Fortunately, the cup was almost completely empty. “Sorry about that,” she smiled weakly, blotting at the small stain on her skirt with a napkin. Across the table, Sherlock Holmes waved off the mishap.
Molly continued her apology as she strode toward the door. “I get so jumpy whenever you stop by. I’m always afraid someone will come by and find us out-oh, goodness, John!” She almost stumbled backward, her eyes as wide as saucers. “I-um-wasn’t expecting you, come in!”
She stepped aside and let John in, hoping that Sherlock could hear and had the good sense to make himself scarce. Sure enough, as she directed John to the sitting room, she saw the tail of Sherlock’s coat flit around the corner.
“Who-who were you talking to just then?” asked John, looking around.
“Oh, no one,” Molly lied softly. “Just running through tomorrows schedule out loud. Helps me remember. So, what brings you by?”
As John and Molly idly discussed the weather and how they weren’t sure they liked the new cook at Speedy’s, Sherlock shut himself in the closet at the end of the hall. For the next thirty minutes or so, he was trapped in a jungle of jumpers and scarves. He couldn’t leave; John would notice. The only way out was past the sitting room.
“Well, I’d best be off,” John concluded after a while. “Thanks so much. Oh, bollocks, I forgot we were expecting rain. D’you still have a spare umbrella in the closet down the hall?”
Molly nodded slowly as John want to fetch it. She had a hunch where Sherlock was.
“I’ll be passing by the morgue on Tuesday, I’ll drop it off then,” he called. He twisted the knob and opened the door, then promptly slammed it shut again. It couldn’t be. Slowly, sure he was losing his marbles, he opened the door.
There, between Molly’s Christmas dress and a maroon jumper, the fringe of a scarf falling comically over his eyes was Sherlock. He wore a guilty smile and raised a hand to wave feebly.
Without a second thought, John punched Sherlock in the face. This time, he didn’t avoid the nose and teeth.
