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

BBC Sherlock: (Johnlock) Excerpt of "The Address Was: 221B Baker Street"

Just for the contest.

If you'd like to see how this ends, go read it.

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The world seemed to crumble and collapse, mirrors shattered beneath the howling wind that blew on the torn curtains. The rips and holes could reflect Dr Watson's expression better than a mirror could.

John felt his hand tremble, body quivering softly like a flickering flame, one a child blew on during their birthday. There was a strengthless sigh shook the ocean floor, a wave of self-pity washing over him and the sand of their flat. His eyes darted the cane, just as a cat would, to the nostalgic streak of black, blurred, he could only see, a black leather glove. His gloves? Sheesh.

John poured himself a cup of tea, his left hand teaching the teacup to sharply tap impatiently against the dish.

His eyes darted back to his coat. The coat the one that he wore when he met Sher— John licked his lips, a bitter taste crawling to the edges of his mouth. The jacket, the black jacket with the pockets and turned-down collar.

Collar, huh? His eyes closed to stand in front of the man's upturned collar that caressed his face. He had worn the same jacket, John hesitated his thoughts like a car crash, his breath came along with the movement of his eyes, he had worn the jacket with the collar turned... up. John glanced at his left hand, the waves of hot water stung fingers. He was just realizing that his flatmate had truly changed something inside him, something.

The doctor had gone through a few jackets through the years he knew Sh— him. There was a brown, green, black... He peered down, a striped robe reflected in the man's washed eyes. Back to the beginning, a restart, a button he could press and he would be another person. As if he had his hand violently slapped out the way he turned to the direction front door.

John grabbed his jacket and flew out the door with the known forbidden object in his hand. Sherlock seemed to know this moment was to happen. The man called Angelo to return the cane to him during the case. Was he a fraud? That question was shot away by his handgun, he was for certain Sherlock was one of the smartest people on this planet.

The grave seemed to get more polished by the moment, maybe from the rain trodden down from the heavens and surrounded him, becoming white noise that buzzed behind him. He looked down, to see a large, black umbrella blanketing the gravestone. An umbrella always is seen in the hands of 'SH's' one-of-a-kind, only seen in movies, arch-enemy.

"John." A voice came from behind him, he spun around to find a soaked Mycroft. His soaked suit seemed to mirror the older Holmes's expression, weary and tired, even more so than before. The blonde's eyes drifted down, noticing their stance.

"I..." John's voice cracked before he could even say a word.

"Visit Gregory for me, he has something for you." Mycroft pulled out something, handing it to John Watson, not before handing him another black umbrella for the rain. John raised it up and saw it was simply a store-bought one and that his large, cane-like umbrella lay beside them.

John nodded, a grip on the items and he hailed a cab, the rain drawing tears he always held on to, even so, while he walked.

John never questioned why Mycroft had sent him to Scotland Yard, the soft, clinking objects in his left pocket and an unmoving expression that even he didn't know he could make. He entered the building, appearing in front of Anderson and Donovan, who both seemed to miss something in their eyes, something fierce.

What it seemed was the sudden yearning for the insults that rain their days and the scoffs from the high-functioning sociopath, something they could scoff at themselves. John could swear he saw one of them had whispered an apology from the back of their throat and placed onto their lips. Watson only allowed himself to suck in a breath, oxygen flowing in his lungs and to slip by.

Lestrade's office was oddly vacant, a low hum that pulled the ex-army doctor out of the real world, into a trance. No sign of the tumultuous D.I., the loudness of Greg's now non-existent laugh unable to be heard from anyone. He could only let him pull out the stack of badges Sherlock commonly pilfered when the D.I. was 'annoying.' John chuckled bitterly again.

"Hey, John." The man greeted him, a sigh could only escape from the ex-army doctor's lips. Lestrade stared at John's hand which held the badges. "That bastar—" He sighed before his towering demeanour tumbled to the ground with a ruckus in a moment of lengthy glances at John's hands, which contained the badges.

"Mycroft wanted me to return these to you." John shook his head with seemed as slow motion and Greg nodded back to the soldier, giving him a pat on back. Lestrade headed for the door, the badges waving around in his hands as they slid past each other, but before he got there, John placed his hand on Lestrade's back. Watson then held out the umbrella and asked if he wanted it to avoid the rain, Greg shook his head, thanking him, leaving the building right after the fading footsteps that rang around the room.

John stood there for what seemed like an eternity, which was how long he had known the younger Holmes brother. He stepped outside for a breath of fresh air which was interrupted by God's tears and soon, he spotted a familiar face that lumbered with him for a long time. His old therapist that Mycroft Holmes had told him to fire, since the finding of the reveal of the true reason behind his tremor. She took her umbrella and jumped into a taxi, leaving John's eyes lingering at the spot she once stood.

He soon also hailed a cab after walking outside with Mycroft's umbrella, waddling his way back up the stairs, his cell phone in his hand, placed in his fingers like a trigger. A breath escaped from his lips once again, an action that would kill him on the insides, slower than a gun, yet faster than those pills inside his stomach.

He sat down in his chair, asking 'Sherlock' questions in murmurs and hisses of reality slapping him on the face with a knife. He did the one thing that he could do without bursting into tears like cascades to waterfalls.

"Hello? Ella Thompson? Yeah... it's Doctor John Watson." He paused, trying to regain his soldier pose from his shaky figure, reduced to a quivering figure of John Watson, once the best friend of Sherlock Holmes.

Once again, John sat longingly in front of his therapist, a cane at his side. His eyes drifting towards the window, as the view out the glass was different, yet so similar.

"I had this friend... Sherlock Holmes... we would solve crimes and... go then go out for dinner." John finally told her after the ticks of silence that left his brain screaming for words, something to say, a voice to tell him that it would be... okay. It was those modest, yet life-defying moments that drove him just a tad more insane.

She clasped her hands together, seemingly hesitant to tell him the news she mustered up, her eyes telling John, the news would make the world collapse on top of him right now. But, truly? The world that was about to fall, had news. It wasn't someone else's news, it was himself, Dr John Watson, telling himself the news.

"John, Sherlock was never real, he... was just a figment of your imagination." John heard and looked up, and soon enough, the world cracked and spilt a black colour that carried him away, like a child on a sled, a bright red sled with white stripes. Not before he heard seven words that left him to close his eyes in defeat, complete and utter defeat.

"Everything is a figment of your imagination." Was the seven words Ella Thompson, that was a figment of his imagination had announced.