Little Writings

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The year had been rough.

Walt was no stranger to hardships in life, but the amount of continuous pain he'd been suffering through for the better part of twenty-two months was something new. Constant night terrors, visions, and schoolwork were catching up to him.

And then, on November 22, 2007, Locke showed up.

Walt had walked out of school, talking to his 'friends,' when he'd seen Locke out of the corner of his eye. He stopped dead in his tracks, distractedly waved a hand at the group. John looked almost the same as he had three years ago — although the scar on his eye had faded considerably, the way he held himself was just as confident. He didn't question why Locke was in a wheelchair or why the strange black man was standing on his shoulder. All he knew was that Locke was here.

Walt was excited.

He wasn't sure why Locke was back in the real world, or where everyone else was, or if the people still on the Island were even alive, but Walt knew he wanted answers. Needed answers. Locke always seemed to have had them so long ago, and Walt was sure he would now.

Some new emotion clawed up Walt's throat when Locke raised a hand, waving over the street. He crossed over the pavement towards his old friends, face drawn into something like curiosity. Confusion. Wonder. Walt clutched his backpack tightly, observed the cast over Locke's leg, then looked back up. Extended an arm and shook his hand. "Hey, John," he said, a smile warming his cheeks.

Locke grinned. "Hi, Walt." He laughed softly.

Walt glanced back down at his leg and observed the wheelchair. "What happened?"

"I hurt my leg," John said simply. A pause. "You don't seem surprised to see me."

That familiar sensation of excitement tingled through his chest. "I've been having dreams about you." Walt made sure his voice stayed even. It was true. He'd been having visions about Locke's return, in a similar fashion to this. Except now, it was real. John tilted his head, giving him time to continue. "You were on the Island, wearing a suit, and there were people all around you. They wanted to hurt you, John."

Locke raised his brows, offering no definitive answer. "Good thing they're just dreams."

Walt opened and shut his mouth, deciding it was better not to explain how, sometimes, his visions came true. And then there was a sudden urge inside to know what John knew, to figure out just how much he knew. "Is my dad..." Walt tried to find the right words. "Is he back on the Island?" Perhaps there was also some child-like hope that his father was still alive, that the freighter nightmare hadn't been anything but a nightmare. Maybe Michael was alive. "I haven't talked to him in..." He shrugged. "Three years. I figured he must've gone back."

John tilted his head upwards, brows furrowing slightly. He looked like he was thinking, hesitating, links between words becoming slow and disoriented. "Um, last I heard, your dad was on a freighter near the Island."

Walt stared at him, almost unable to comprehend the words. It was true. Michael had been on the freighter, and now he was dead. He nodded slowly, taking a shaky step back. "So why'd you come to see me?"

John smiled and stared at Walt, looking him over with a soft gaze. In some ways, this man felt like more of a parent than Michael ever had been. When a beat of silence spread between them, the only thing Walt wanted to ask was, What? "I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

He grinned slightly, nodding. "Yeah. I'm doing pretty good." A pause. Locke said nothing more. "Well... I gotta go." He looked over at where the bus was rumbling down the street. "It was good seeing you, John."