And life moved on. It was dreadful at first, obviously. I almost felt as if John had fallen to the same faith as Mycroft. He was gone from my life, but I never stopped thinking about him. He was always there, a loud reminder at the front of my mind.
...Then eventually a little further back in my mind. Still there, but not as pressing as before. I was flexible again. I could grieve and move along with life at the same time. With my limp, I had thought the jobs offered to me would be limited, but it appeared that my intelligence was too outstanding for my employers to overlook.
I went to college. I studied chemistry and I moved along a little from the trauma I had been through. Eventually, I became used to living in a city, and when I had graduated I moved to London. John was a lot more on my mind those first few weeks of living in London. A part of me desperately wanted to bump into him, but what good would it do? Another affair, another realisation that this was too difficult to continue, another heartbreaking departure? But, London is a big city. And I never bumped into him.
And despite everything I have just said, yes, I was very bitter about never seeing him again.
After college, and once I had settled in a cosy flat in central London, I decided to set up my own business as a consulting detective. As my name became more and more famous in newspapers and through people telling (usually exaggerated) tales of me, I often wondered if John heard of me. I hope he did. Because, I knew John worried for me. I knew he was anxious to know if I could fit in and make a life, and maybe if he had heard of my job he would have been given some consolation.
As the world progressed around me, I saw more and more people like myself and John. People who were brave enough to be with each other boldly and express their love. It was dangerous. It was almost foolish of them, but I thought so very highly of these people. Another war came and went and life moved too fast. I became an old man. I was alone. I didn't mind it much, but it would have been nicer if I had managed to stay with John. Even after so many years had passed, at night I would close my eyes and imagine us growing old together. And, it was in those moments that I hated myself for not being as brave as the young people like us today.
As I grow older, John has come to the front of my mind again. I see him, still young and happy and as in love with me as I was with him. Thinking of John makes me feel lonely, but he is also a comfort on the nights were loneliness strikes hard. I can remember with perfect detail what it felt like to be with my doctor and it soothes the ache.
Currently, there is a letter laying on my bedside table. There is to be a memorial event open to everyone who fought in the first world war. I had scowled upon being invited to such an event. Why remember such a dreadful time?
There are two 'John Watson's on the list of all those invited. Maybe this was my chance to be brave.