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After yet another week of nothing happening to him, John Watson decided to grab a pint at the dingy, low-key pub near his bedsit. It was the third night in a row he’d gone. Last night, he got lucky when his old army mate, Bill Murray, bought a few rounds. Had he not, there was no way John would be able to afford this afternoon’s beer.
He was nursing his first drink for about half an hour, sipping steadily, letting his mind go blissfully blank, when a ghost from his military past walked in. John swallowed hard, a crimson red blush shooting up the back of his neck, his left hand clenching the handle of his beer mug.
James Sholto. His former commander in the army. And, subsequently, the greatest love he’s ever known. John spent most of his late twenties completely infatuated with the man.
It was circumstance that had forced them apart. A bullet to John’s shoulder invalided from the forces, while James’ ended after he made a decision that was immediately surrounded in controversy. John was left to recover, alone, and James quickly went into hiding after several death threats and persistent questions from media outlets.
Though his anxiety was still making a guest appearance, he couldn’t help the small smirk that appeared so naturally upon his face, thinking about all of the unforgettable moments they had, so many years ago.
God. It felt like an entire lifetime ago.
When John saw James tentatively look up and scan the room, looking for somewhere secluded to sit, he held up his hand and beckoned James over. Stoic as ever, James walked over, stiffly, full of caution. Any easy spirit he had was gone, and it made John’s heart ache. More than it usually did.
Back in the day, James was a force to reckoned with. He had been a hurricane, in the best sense of the word. He was the crashing waves of the ocean. He was the fierceness of a thunderstorm. It was obvious the first time you looked at him that he was full of life, full of energy, full of spirit. Everything about him was captivating, and John was just that -- captivated. To see that gone was nearly unbearable. He took a big gulp of his beer, already feeling the need to drown in alcohol.
Losing the connection he had with James was the hardest loss John had ever had to go through. It was harder than being shot, it was harder than any physical pain he endured during his time in the army. This served as nothing but a cruel reminder.
“Fancy seeing you here,” John croaked out as James sat on the stool beside him.
All James did in response was nod.
“Can I buy you a pint?” John prompted.
“No, Watson. That’s quite alright, thank you.”
“Watson?” John snorted. “We’ve known each other too long and too well for you to call me Watson.”
“John,” James conceded, correcting his mistake.
John flinched involuntarily at the sound of his name on James’ lips. It was familiar. It dripped intimacy and it damn near killed him.
He caught the bartender’s attention with a flick of his wrist, holding up his finger to indicate he’d like another drink. It was against his better judgment but isn’t this what people do when they run into ex-lovers?
John held the new mug between his hands, wiping away the condensation, before taking a long, savoury sip.
“I had a chat with Murray last night.”
“Oh, yeah?” John answered. “We grabbed a pint yesterday, too. It seems like he’s doing well.”
“Yes, seems so.”
The conversation halted again, both men sitting uncomfortably in silence.
Out of the corner of his eye, John could see James’ intently staring at him. He shifted a bit on his stool, drinking nearly half of his new pint in three big swigs.
“How have you been, John? Last time I saw you was … well. It was th--”
“The day I got shot? Yeah, right, I suppose it was,” he shrugged. “You were the last thing I saw before I lost consciousness.”
“You remember that…?”
John stared at his glass. Sometimes, he figured the only reason he survived, the only reason he fought death so hard, was because he knew James would be waiting for him when he woke up. He thought his face would be the first thing he saw.
It wasn’t.
“I remember everything about you.”
Beside him, James cleared his throat and looked straight ahead, avoiding eye contact as best he could. John finished the rest of his second beer. Against his better judgment, he ordered a shot of vodka, downing it in a matter of seconds, the feeling of burning travelling from his throat down to his chest.
“Tell me, James,” John choked out. “What brings you back into civilization? Last I heard, you were holed up in a cottage somewhere near the coast.”
“You.”
“Hmm, what’s that?”
“Bill told me he was worried about you.”
John turned to face James again, surprised -- and definitely a little pissed off.
“Is that so?”
“I wouldn’t have braved the outside world for just anyone, John. Seeing you like this… Bill was right to be worried.”
Groaning, John lifted his hand again to order another shot, but only made it about halfway into the air before he felt a strong, calloused hand stop him. James had gently settled his palm on top of John’s forearm, slowly lowering it. When John’s arm was flat atop the surface of the bar, he felt James tenderly massage the top of his hand.
“Please don’t,” James whispered.
“You’re not my commander anymore,” John huffed.
“I’m not asking as your former commander. I’m asking as your friend.”
John watched as James pulled his hand away. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but he thought he detected a hint of reluctance and regret, maybe even a bit of yearning.
Quietly, John requested his bar tab and reached in his trouser pocket for his wallet. He rifled through it, attempting to find enough coin for a somewhat mediocre tip.
“May I?”
John looked up, startled, and saw his old friend placing a few notes in his direction, in offering.
“Do I have a choice?”
“You always have a choice, John. That’s the point.”
“So, if I allow you to pick up the tab, what choice am I supposedly making?”
“It would mean you’re promising me that you’ll take care of yourself. I know how much an army pension gives. Keep your money and use it on something that could change your life.”
He hesitantly put his wallet away, never breaking eye contact with James. His heart damn near fell out of his chest when he saw a small smile and the look of hope cross James’ face.
James handed the bartender the money, enough to order two glasses of water as well.
“I get it, you know,” James said.
“Sorry, get what?”
“Being numb. Or wanting to be numb. When I got home, all I wanted to do was kill the pain of remembering. Life had stagnated. Everything was so different and so much harder than I remembered. So I started using drugs.”
It felt as though John had been viciously punched in the gut. He couldn’t imagine James, of all people, using drugs. John knew what alcohol could do to people -- his sister was a severe alcoholic and he was probably well on his way. Deep down, he knew alcoholism wasn’t all that different of an addiction than drugs, but somehow, it just felt different. He felt clobbered by this entire heartbreaking revelation.
“James! Drugs?!”
“Heroin was a particular favourite of mine.”
“Please stop. I can’t hear this. No.”
“Too damn bad, Watson! You bloody need to hear this. I could have killed myself hundreds of times and the only people who would have known are those that I employ.”
Before he could stop it, tears started to flood John’s eyes. Even if he and James were no longer connected, he couldn’t envision a world in which James had killed himself -- whether it be on purpose or by accident. He cleared his throat and rubbed his eyes, hardening himself. John could count on one hand how many times he’s cried in his life and he wasn’t about to add crying in front of James to the list.
As hard as he tried, however, a tear still managed to escape and find its way down his cheek. Before he could wipe it away himself and pretend it never happened, he felt James’ hands cup his face and turn his head slightly.
“John. I am not telling you this to hurt you. I am telling you this because I don’t want that for you. You deserve more than withering away in a god awful bedsit.”
“What’s London got to offer for an invalid army vet like me, James?”
“Everything, John. It’s got everything.”
John wrapped his fingers around James’ wrists, holding his hands in place. He missed this feeling so much. Carefully, he tilted his head up and closed the distances between them, their lips meeting for the first time in far too many years. It was like they had never stopped.
“God, I sure have missed you,” John whispered, nearly inaudible.
“And I you,” smiled James, sadness quickly taking over. “It’s time for me to go, John.”
All too quickly, James untangled his wrists from John’s fingers, and pulled his hands away. Sullenly, John nodded, trying his best to compose himself.
“I’ll always come running for you, John Watson. Go live your life. For me.”
John slid off his bar stool, as did James. The feeling of comfort they had just experienced turn to awkwardness as they stood silently together, not sure what the next move would be for either of them.
“I’ll walk out with you,” John muttered.
Walking shoulder to shoulder, their hands brushing together, they pushed the door open, facing the world that had let them down in so many ways. It might have only been for a moment that they both had the strength to walk into the light, but for John, something did feel different.
“Good luck, John.”
James held out his hand and John scoffed at the gesture, pulling him in for a bruising, bone-crushing hug.
“Thank you,” John whispered in his ear.
He watched as James turned away and walked in the opposite direction, feeling as though they had finally gotten the closure they deserved. The closure they should have had a long time ago.
With the slightest spring in his step, he decided to walk to a nearby park and spend the rest of the afternoon there, taking in what he had been quick to reject.
Little did he know, his life really was about to change forever.