The Johnlock Book of One Shots

Sherlocket (@the_flying_ostrich)

        John entered the flat to a horrendous sight. There were boxes everywhere, papers and random atrocities scattered about, and in the middle of the catastrophe was Sherlock.

        “Sherlock? What the bloody hell happened here?” John exclaimed, trying to get to the kitchen to put the milk away without tripping over the various boxes and killing himself.

        “Cleaning,” said Sherlock.

        “Cleaning what?” asked John, annoyed, putting the milk in the fridge after he had finally got to the kitchen unharmed.

        “My room out. I’m getting rid of what I don’t need,” said Sherlock, busy throwing random objects out of a large box.

        “Well Sherlock, I don’t think you’ll be needing any of this,” John said, back in the main room and looking over the various things with a scowl on his face. “How was all this in your room anyway? Where did you put it all?”

        Sherlock ignored John, carefully looking at something he had just pulled out of the box. He was completely absorbed by the object. “What is it Sherlock?” asked John, coming closer to the man and peering over his shoulder. Sherlock handed John the object, a small gold locket. It was slightly faded, but still very beautiful. It was engraved with a rose on the front. John tried to open it, but it was stuck. “A locket,” mused John. “Sherlock? Why do you have a locket?”        “My mother gave it to me,” Sherlock said plainly.

        “And you’ve kept it all this time?”

        Sherlock was quiet for a moment. Then, “She told me to keep it . . . she told me to hold onto it, for the day I fell in love. Once I found love, I would put the picture of that person inside of it.”

        Both men were quiet for a moment.

        Sherlock broke the silence. “Complete rubbish,” he said. “I’ll probably throw it out.” John sensed something in Sherlock’s voice he had never heard before . . . was it embarrassment?

        “I think it’s rather lovely, actually,” said John, handing the locket back to Sherlock. “Besides, you can call it ‘the Sherlocket’.”

        Sherlock smirked and turned the locket over in his hands. John walked away, and after watching him for a moment and thinking, Sherlock stuffed the locket into his pocket and continued sorting through the mess. ‘Sherlocket’. It had a ring to it.

*************           

        Twenty years later

        Sherlock and John had not seen each other for twenty years. John had gotten married to Mary and moved on with his life, and with no reason to stay on Baker Street, Sherlock went to a faraway country, traveling abroad and concerning himself with new adventures to keep his mind off of how lonely he was.

        On a grey London street one rainy day, a young man in his very early twenties entered a coffee shop. It was raining particularly hard that afternoon, and as a result, the coffee shop was packed, every table was absolutely filled, except for one. The young man walked over to the table, sitting down. He was very tall and skinny, and quite handsome. He had multicolored eyes and high cheekbones, and his hair was dark and curly. He rather resembled his father, although he had never seen much of him.

        A young girl entered the shop just then, and looked around for a spot to sit at. The young man noticed her at once, thinking how pretty she was. She had a sweet demeanor, and although rather plump she was very beautiful. She had soft blonde hair and blue eyes with rosy cheeks. She walked around the shop a bit, looking for an empty table to sit at. Just as she was about to pass the table the young boy sat at, he stood up, offering her a seat at his table. She smiled and her cheeks warmed, and took his offer appreciatively. They both sat down, and the two struck up a conversation. After a while, the man took out a pocket watch to check the time. As he did so, something else fell out of his pocket and slid along the smooth floor. It was small and attached to a gold chain. “What is that?” the girl asked. The man bent over to pick up the fallen object, and as he sat back up he showed it to her, saying, “A locket. My father gave it to me.”“It’s very beautiful,” exclaimed the girl, noticing the rose carefully engraved on its surface.

        “Thank you,” said the boy politely. “You can try and open it if you like. I’ve never been able to.” He handed the locket to her. “It’s really all I have of my father,” the boy said.

        “I’m so sorry, is he still alive?”

        “Oh yes, I’m sure he is. Though, if he died I don’t think I would know, since I hardly ever get a word from him . . . my mother and him were never married, you know, so he’s sort of been absent my whole life.”

        “I’m so sorry!”

        “Oh don’t worry about it. I’m rather used to it now, and I assure you I’m quite happy without him. My mother is too. She always said that he never truly loved her. He was always pining after some lost love he had lost long ago . . . but enough about that. What about you? What is your father like?”

        “My father is a very nice man. He’s an army doctor, although he’s considering retirement now.”

        “Oh that’s lovely! What a nice job it must be.”

        The two continued to talk while the young girl tried to open the locket.

        “What’s your name?” The boy eventually asked her.

        “I’m Sherley,” she replied. “You?”

        “John,” he said. “I hear that my father named me that, after someone he once knew.”

        “Really? That’s my father’s name!”

        “Wouldn’t that be something if I was named after your father?” The two laughed for a minute, and just as they did so, the locket popped open. Sherley gasped, for the picture inside was of no other than her father John Watson.

        It had turned out that Sherlock had kept the locket after all, and he had in fact put a picture inside of it, just like his mother had told him to do once he had found the love of his life.