Reunion (Johnlock)

2. The Man On The Green Bench

Watson silently read the letter over and over again, but still he could not make any more sense of it. He used to have a friend, a good friend, who would be able to work out everything pertaining to the letter. Find it's origins based on type of paper, and it's writer from the loop of the Y.

But Watson was not like this friend. He was ordinary. His life was ordinary. He had done the same thing day in, day out, for two years. Nothing happened, and nothing changed. But before then was a different matter.

This friend had captured him in his life of intrigue and mystery. He had come across the evilest of minds, and the most atrocious of crimes, and he loved it. Spending all his time with this friend, beginning to understand and love his brilliant mind, it was the most wonderful time of his life. But that was gone now. He was gone. And now Watson was alone, and ordinary.

No matter how hard he thought, how much he tried to put himself into the mindset of his friend, he just couldn't. The note remained just a demand. And he could learn no more about it just by memorising its contents. He had to do what it said.

Watson limped towards the door, pulling on the worn anorak that had be hanging lifelessly by the door for far too long. He picked up the cane, feeling the familiarity of its weight and handle. Sighing inwardly, he pulled the door open a crack.

The outside world flooded in. Sunlight, although dimmed by the thick layer of moody clouds, was blinding. The smell of concrete after rain, and the freshness of nature took him aback. His ears were filled with the sound of passing cars and singing birds. From the bleak simplicity of his house, this was an attack on the senses. And God, how he had missed it.

He almost let his face crack into a smile, as a sliver of sunlight hit his face, and a gentle breeze blew though his hair. Almost.

Limping across the pavement, he flagged down a passing taxi.

"Hyde Park, please." He mumbled, his voice uncertain and weak from many months of un-use. The taxi driver nodded, and they drove off.

Watson had no idea what he was doing. All of the possibilities of what could happen next were battling in his mind. What if the parcel was delivered to him by mistake? He wasn't the only John Watson in existence. What if this was dangerous? A criminal put away by him and his friend could be waiting for him there, waiting for revenge. This was a stupid idea.

Beneath these strong thoughts, a weak and impossible one was trying to come through. What if it was him? What if his friend had come back?

"Don't be stupid!" He grumbled, looking sheepishly away from the bewildered gaze of the taxi cab driver.

"What was that?" Oh damn, he'd heard him

"Oh....I said stop here please" John quickly lied, handing the taxi driver a fistful of notes and hopping out of the taxi before it had even properly stopped.

A walk would clear his head. And give him a chance to just forget this whole idea and go home. But it was too late for him to turn back now, he was just around the corner, and his curiosity was just too strong.

As he shuffled through the park, he studied the ground furiously, worried that if he looked up and saw who or what he was meeting, he'd just run away.

In the far corner of the park, far away from all anyone else, sat a man on a green bench. Watson was familiar with this bench, it was his favourite place to come and sit when the world was getting too much, before he became a recluse. And the man knew this. He had seen John many times, sitting alone here.

As John shuffled up to the bench, standing mere metres away, he finally looked up. And just stared.

"Sherlock...." He breathed. It was as though he had seen a ghost. And in his mind, he had.

John turned around sharply, and hurriedly started to limp away, clenching his hand around the handle of his walking stick in anger. This couldn't be real.

"John." Sherlock had caught up to Watson, and grabbed his arm, spinning him around to face him. He stared almost blankly at John. But after years of living together, John knew that this look meant guilt.

"Just....just don't talk to me Sherlock! You're not here, I know you're not!!" But from the firm grip on his arm, he knew that it was him. Sherlock was back from the dead.