Sherlock (but from a Johnlock POV){ON HOLD}

SIP: ✨Two✨

(Every time I try to write Watson, autocorrect tries to change it to wasting, Walton, or Easton 🤦🏼)

John Watson limped through Russell Square Park, leaning on his cane. He passed a man on a bench, and the man stared at him as he walked past, clearly recognizing him.

John didn't notice. He was tired, and caught up in his own thoughts. He hadn't got a good night's sleep since he came back from Afghanistan.

"John!"

The doctor didn't hear him at first, or maybe he thought the man was talking to someone else. Someone else coincidentally named John?

"John Watson!" The man smiled, hurrying over to him as he turned around. "Stamford, Mike Stamford. We were at Bart's together!"

The name had a hint of recognition in John's brain, and suddenly he remembered. "Yes, sorry, yes, Mike," he stammered, switching his cane to his left side so he could shake Mike's outstretched hand.

Mike chuckled. "Yeah, I know, I got fat."

"No," said John, trying to sound convincing.

Mike didn't seem to notice or care. "So, I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?"

John blinked. "I got shot," he said, a tad awkwardly.

They stood there for a minute in embarrassment.

A little later, they'd bought some coffees and were sitting on a bench in the park, sipping at the beverages in silence. Mike gave John a worried look. The former soldier didn't notice.

"So, are you still at Bart's then?" he asked, glancing over at the bigger man beside him.

"Teaching now," Mike said with a smile. "Bright young things, like we used to be. God, I hate them!"

They both laughed.

"What about you?" Mike asked. "Just staying in town 'til you get yourself sorted?"

"I can't afford London on an Army pension," John replied.

"Ah, and you couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the John Watson I know."

"Yeah, I'm not the John Watson..." He trailed off and Mike looked away slightly awkwardly, sipping his coffee. John rested his cane against the bench and clenched his left hand into a fist, trying to calm the tremor that had just started.

Mike looked back at him, a little concerned. "Couldn't Harry help?"

"Yeah, like that's ever going to happen!" John said sarcastically, giving a cross between a scoff and a hollow laugh as he glanced down at the ground.

Mike shrugged. "I dunno, get a flatshare or something?"

"Come on." John looked at Nike with an expression that said plainly, 'really?' "Who'd want me for a flatmate?"

Mike chuckled thoughtfully.

"...what?"

"Well, you're the second person to say that to me today," Mike replied.

John tilted his head a little. "Who was the first?"

~~~

A tall, dark-haired man named Sherlock Holmes unzipped a black body bag lying on the table of St Bartholomew's Hospital Morgue, frowning down at the corpse inside it.

"How fresh?" he asked the mortician, whose name was Molly Hooper.

She walked over, glancing down at a clipboard. "Just in. 67, natural causes." She gave a little empathetic smile. "He used to work here. I knew him, he was nice," she added, even though she knew Sherlock couldn't care less.