Saving John Watson (BBC Sherlock fanfic)

The Depressing New Reality

In order to better understand this story, I would suggest changing your font to Baskerville. In order to do this, click my story from your reading list, tap "Aa", then select Baskerville. The reason you should change it is because all fonts are different and you won't understand how Sherlock figures somethings out unless you have the Baskerville font. Thank you, and please enjoy the story.

~RLS

I tried to tell myself it hadn't happened. It was just too crazy to believe, right? My best friend, Sherlock Holmes, had to pull off this one last miracle; he just had to! But, it's been a year now, and they've already cleared his name. Surely he would have come back by now! I just don't understand why he jumped, why he left me here. Things had been so lonely before I met him, then, things had been brilliant, now, now things were worse than they had ever been. If Sherlock came back today, I'd...

                                        –John H. Watson

I finished typing up my last blog, after this, I would bid farewell to my readers, and let go of all my memories of Sherlock Holmes and our cases forever. I couldn't think of a good ending for my final blog. I decided not to rush it, today was, after all, the anniversary of the day Sherlock jumped.

What day of the week is it? I asked myself, I had quit paying attention to the date several months ago. I turned on my mobile phone to see that it was Friday, Brilliant. I thought. This was the day I usually went to visit Sherlock.

I had gone back to using my cane since the death of my friend. My wife, Mary, had tried to convince me that I didn't need it, but I just couldn't let it go. I slowly made my way down the stairs and opened the door. The cold, winter air surprised me when I opened the door. I had my jacket on, but it didn't seem to help. I suddenly remembered how much I missed 221B. I remembered the first day I had moved in, meeting Ms, Hudson, and finally having a friend. Those days were gone now, though I still had breakfast with Ms. Hudson occasionally.

Instead of taking a cab, I walked to the cemetery so I could be alone with my thoughts. When I finally got there, I saw all the graves of people who had died. Many of them had probably died quiet, peaceful deaths, unlike my friend, Sherlock Holmes.

I saw, off in the distance, a grave that was separated from the rest. How very like Sherlock—secluded, away from everyone else.

I hobbled over to the grave of my friend. And recounted the events of the day of the "Riechenbach fall," as I called it in my blog.

"John," I heard a familiar voice call out. I turned around to face her, my lovely wife Mary. Mary was quite pregnant; she was due any day now. She joined me next to the grave.

"How did you know I'd be here?" I asked her as she took my hand.

"You're always here." She replied, smiling.

Mary had never had the good fortune of meeting Sherlock Holmes, so she didn't really understand my sadness, but if it hadn't been for Mary, I honestly might have given myself a similar fate to Sherlock.

We stood there in silence for about five minutes. I couldn't bring myself to say anything, in fear that I might start weeping. I would have, had I been alone. Mary hated to see me upset, and she was under enough stress with our daughter on the way. I needed to be strong for her, I think she might have felt the same about me.

"I've got to go." Mary hesitantly told me and let go of my trembling hand. "Are you coming home?"

"Yes, in a little while." I replied, "You should go on home, Mary. Get some rest."

She nodded and kissed me, then walked back to her car, soon the car was out of sight, and I was completely alone. I had hardly been using the cane for support, when suddenly, my right leg felt limp. I collapsed to my knees in front of the grave. Hot tears welled up in my eyes. I was feeling a mix of emotions, emotions of pain, depression, and utter sadness. While I was thrilled to death that I was about to have a beautiful daughter, there was a whole in my heart that, it seemed, could never be filled again.

I remembered Ms. Hudson, who was probably feeling similar to how I felt. I decided that I needed to go visit her, and braved the bitterly cold air to find my old home, 221B Baker Street.

I heard terrified crying coming from Ms. Hudson's bedroom. It was worse than I had thought. Ms. Hudson always put on a brave face for me, it was time for me to return the favor.

"Ms. Hudson?" I asked worriedly. I followed the sound of the crying to her bedroom, and slowly opened the door.

A horrific sight awaited me behind that door. Ms. Hudson was curled up in the corner of her cozy bedroom, her head resting on her knees. She was shielding her face. A masked gunman had a gun pointed at the poor lady's head. She darted her head up to see me. She hadn't seen me in about a month.

"John!" She chocked out," Please... Help me."

"Why are you doing this?" I shouted at the gunman.

The gunman didn't answer, he just whistled. Ms. Hudson screamed in terror. A gloved hand wrapped around my face and a paper towel was pressed to my mouth. I felt dizzy, so it must have been drugged. Then, the gunman hit me in the head with his gun. And I fell to the ground, an unconscious heap.

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How are you enjoying the story? I always enjoy feedback, whether good or bad. I will add chapter two when I have finished writing the story, just in case I need to go back and edit something. I do hope you like the rest. Thanks!
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Get ready,  John Watson.

~RLS