Fandom Oneshots [Mainly Marvel, Sherlock, and Good Omens, and House MD]

BBC Sherlock: (Johnlock) "The Remembrance of Sherlock Holmes"

A bit of a post-Reichbach fall thing, but can be read as before as well.

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Sherlock remembered a lot, he remembered everything if he needed to, from the most recent of cases to old theories thousands of years ago, he remembered. Yet he just couldn't remember what happened.

"Is this all just a joke to you?" John turned around with his swiped back hair and not-jumper clad top. He wasn't John if Sherlock didn't hear the anger vibrating through his shorter figure. He could feel the same anger as before, the kind that John would give off when he had revealed to have "poisoned" him. It was so much more than poison, he could feel flames. Sherlock wasn't one to "feel," if that gives an idea of how much emotion was rolling off the military man.

It wasn't John, at least, what Sherlock remembered. He opened his mouth but John stepped forwards and leaned closer to him. His words were exact, the sentence that floated through Sherlock's mind, but he couldn't remember John's expression.

"Sherlock, you can't expect a person... no, me to just let you back and let you poison me again!" John said. Sherlock's brain flashed with the red eyes of the Hound, or rather, HOUND if he was being fair. "Not everyone is like you."

It was just like calling him a freak. Yet John always complimented the uniqueness of his abilities. Sherlock couldn't think, he just stood there as his best friend, flatmate, and blogger, and the many other titles he couldn't remember, stomped away.

He was about to say something, pip up and snipe the last words at him. Instead, he placed a familiar phone in his hands, between his thumb and forefinger. As if a stupid analogy, the phone was the same brand, yet different model, brand new. Sherlock didn't know if he preferred the new one. He needed to say something.

His hand raised to eyes level, just on the edge of Sherlock's vision. In front of Sherlock was John who had just opened the door. The phone nudged to the right a bit and John was gone. The phone was sent to the left. Right, left, right, left. It finally occurred to Sherlock. How? He had to remember. He lets the phone stay just to the right of his clear vision.

He simply said, "Oh, John Watson, what have you done to me?" It was not a question, but, rather, a statement.

It isn't like him. As many remember his brother, Mycroft, he's much more likely to say it, as he did play "mummy" for most of the younger one's life. In a nutshell, of course. Then again, no one really knew what he said, not even Anthea, who stood by the doorway with her phone. The whisper of his voice said so much for him that he would soon remember that day as different than the others.

Back at Bart's, in a certain lab, Sherlock slowly twists the knob of the microscope, a mousy woman stands by him. He unconsciously went back to the exact spot he first laid eyes on John. If someone did tell him, he would've metaphorically spat and said something similar to and more Sherlockian to, "blasted sentiment!"

The former was spoken but the latter was more-or-less replaced with the oiled gears in Sherlock's head-turning.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" Molly asked. Her confidence fuzzy in which area it was in. She could see the distress in the man and yet every question she ever asked was mostly shot down.

Muffled noises came from the spot. Then, a loud cross between a grunt and a groan escaped the man. He raised a hand and both scientists watched the almost invisible movement, the slightest twitch. She watched Sherlock's pupils in his pale eyes move. His eyes were like a camera, capturing every second that the hand would exist in. He wasn't just like cameras for that singular reason, cameras remembered. Just like when John took that picture of the bright-yellow Chinese symbol.

"Sherlock?"

"I'm fine," He stared into her eyes.

"That day you met him," Molly's confidence had somehow shot up and she didn't know how to feel about that. "You sat right there," She stated.

Sherlock didn't seem to move but Molly, like John, knew he could realize with the subconscious movement. He grabbed his phone. He knew his hand would still be shaking.

"Get your head out, Sherlock. Realize." Molly whispered. Sherlock realized, he realized instead of remembered, he needed to do that, realize, not remember. He really couldn't place a shaking finger on what he could say back, so, just like before, he left before he sniped a comment at the other.

Sherlock also realized that everyone had told him to "buck up." He was really just that obvious. He sent that text the very next minute.

Come once, if convenient. SH

Nothing else. Just convenient. It turned out John was convenient.

"Funny reference," Sherlock heard from behind him.

"John." Nothing else, just John.

"Going to apologize?" John raised an eyebrow.

"How was the walk to 221B? You could've asked for cab fare," Sherlock remained stoic.

"Not really a thing I do," John shrugged.

"Yes," Sherlock lifted his head, "I thought I knew you well enough, it was only enough."

"Do you?"

"I remembered it like that," Sherlock said. He couldn't remember the rest.

Mycroft had walked to 221B with his phone and no expression. John greeted him with a short and almost deathly sounding tone. Mycroft spun his umbrella and John's phone pinged. The blonde glanced at the politician and Mycroft gestured for him to grab it.

He watched a Consulting Detective raise a hand, shaking. He heard it. "Oh, John Watson, what have you done to me?" He also knew it wasn't a question, but, a statement. The silence was what drove him. The silence of his lonely figure in a flat for two. He texted during the ride.

Bart's, come at once, if convenient. -JW

Or if inconvenient, come anyway. -JW

John didn't know if Sherlock was convenient or not. He simply knew Sherlock had a small smile on his face. He could see it.

"What's with the new expression," John joked and he knew that Sherlock could understand what everything added together meant.

"Just figured out what you have done to me," Sherlock gazed at the distance. "I'm sorry I can't say it."

"No need to," John replied, a large smile forming on his face.

"I care, none of this is a joke to me," Sherlock's smile widened, "All the things you've done to me." Sherlock knew for certain that John understood. John and everything about him. The moment where the two stood in a comforting peace was when they realized. They are there for each other.

"I hate Mycroft," Sherlock said.

"He probably heard you," John looked to the cameras far off. 

The Remembrance of Sherlock Holmes, the story of which a certain Consulting Detective realizes rather than remembers. The man who has only one other to care for. John Watson. He was the man Sherlock had every single piece information on. John Watson, the man that had done so much to and for Sherlock Holmes. The Remembrance of Sherlock Holmes, of his dear John Watson.