Patches: Short Stories

John | BBC Sherlock

-hn Watson. Shipping back. Discharged on Tuesday.

They said it was his brain, that it was his mind making him limp, not any lasting ache from shattered bone and flesh and dripping viscous blood.

He knew that.

Did he?

He did.

But it felt like betrayal.

It felt like betrayal, to the men who died, to the ones who would never be the same.

The limp was a tribute. A way to say "I'm sorry" to the ones who died because of him. A way to remind himself of them every time he took a step.

To do otherwise was a betrayal. So he forced himself to limp, to feel the phantom pain, to remember the haunting screams that echoed in his head and settled in his leg.

Please... help me.

Every day.

You've gotta help me, doc.
Please.

Until one day, he met a man.

Fresh in London, homeless in way, he met a man.

The address is 221B Baker Street.

A brilliant, secretive man, who hid the lifeless sheen of war behind the sparkle of a mystery, behind the glare of condescension at the idiocy of others.

Do your research!

John was drawn to him, intrigued, fascinated.

That's fantastic!
How did you do that?

They were the same, in a way. Outcast, remnants of something that didn't want them anymore. Set apart, sometimes revered, sometimes ridiculed, but never truly known.

Freak!

You're amazing, did you know that?

And together they made a life. A hectic, violent friendship that healed.

-friend of mine, Dr. John Watson.

The man made him forget, but not really. Just... feel at peace.

The limp was no longer necessary.

He could honour the dead in a different way.

And as time wore on, the man came to depend on John. For companionship, for care, for the little spark of life that was so often lost in the masses of humanity.

-need more milk.
Why didn't you get it?
Busy.

For a friendship that healed.

And then he died.

-erlock, no!

Glass. Shattering, sparkling, falling.

He's my friend,
let me through.

John fell, too. Fell deep into despair, and almost shattered himself.

One more miracle.
Please.

But then... a woman. A funny, caring, secretive woman, who grew more beautiful than anything he had ever seen.

She loved him.

She took the cracking pieces of him and smoothed them together, strengthened them and moulded them into something new. Something a little less fragile.

He married her.

And the man wasn't dead.

Surprise me.
I'm certainly endeavouring to, sir.

He came back, one day. And John exploded.

And settled back again, helped by the woman. And the man returned to his life, and John returned to his.

And the woman stitched them all together.

A child was born, to John and the woman.

A beautiful child, a girl.

The man laughed. He took her in his arms, and she smiled at him.

And then the woman died.

Mary!

And John shattered, and the man cracked.

They formed again, after a time, and life went on, but there was always something missing.

By now, he was used to the feeling. The losing, the weeping, the emptiness that followed. The whisper of the dead in the darkness of his mind.

The war was back.

He was used to the war.

The war had never left.

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This little tidbit came to me all of a sudden after a day of forcing ideas onto a page. And then this flowed out, and I was quite surprised.

It was very interesting to do an exploration of John's mentality through the time that we see him. I hope I did it some sort of justice.

Let me know what you thought!