Chapter Text
John is currently sitting on the couch, lazing about with his laptop, trying to catch up on writing his blog, when he stumbles into a comment commending Sherlock for his genius…and John is a curious man.
It’s been an hour and John admits he might’ve stumbled into a rabbit hole, a rabbit hole of reading comments from people who are just as fascinated with his flatmate as he is.
They’re wonderful, really, he’s glad that Sherlock is getting this much attention, the blog is about him for heaven’s sake!
But, deep down somewhere, it hurts a little that none of those comments are about him.
Why would they be?
He’s always been just John Watson.
You can glean very few things from that name in all its simplicity—for one—it’s one of the most common names for a boy. Taken in isolation, it’s not something that anyone would remember.
Hell, he doubts he would!
Sherlock Holmes however, it’s a name that catches anyone off guard-anyone who hasn’t moulded the grooves of its syllables onto their tongue, like John had the moment he had heard it.
Their names reflect the people who wear them in that sense.
They seemed to have known the one who’d be remembered and the one who’d be forgotten.
John is fine with being forgotten, or so he lies.
In truth he’s deathly afraid of it.
When he’d been a child, he was the less troublesome one, straight A’s, no smoking or drinking, played football and was a part of the student council. One may call him ideal, perfect…He’d call himself mundane.
Harry had always been worse, she had been loud! She had taken up drinking! She had married a woman! Their parents—well parent, mom—had no choice but to be preoccupied with her, with fixing her.
He had faded into the background.
He’d been forgotten.
He’d always had friends in school, though they were never really close, they hadn’t known him. They never kept in touch after.
He’d been forgotten.
The army was different, they were a family, he’d finally felt seen-then he had taken a bullet to the shoulder.
He still kept in contact now, his mates who were off duty still called him to meet up, but plans were getting harder to make due to the whirlwind of his life that he now calls the post-Sherlock era.
Due to his making,
He shall soon be forgotten.
Sherlock had been a surprise, a complicated, lovely surprise. On the day he’d met him, he’d inscribed meaning into John’s life again. He’d asked, “Afghanistan or Iraq” and single-handedly changed the entirety of John’s atomic structure. To think of life without him now would be utter blasphemy. Yet in spite of such an impact on John’s life, Sherlock…cared about little other than his cases. He’d said so himself! Married to his work!
When a case had overtaken his mind, Sherlock cared little if John was by his side. In fact he’d left him behind now in the throes of his latest case, since John’s shoulder had been aching and when it does his leg is sure to follow, he was little use when he could barely run for a minute without pain.
So, yet again, by his dearest friend,
He will be forgotten.
The thought was enough to bring tears to his eyes.
Sighing, John maneuvered himself off the couch, closing his laptop that he had been staring at for the past hour and a half, and set it aside.
It was definitely time to shut down this decidedly desolate line of thought, and perhaps take a shower.
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John was staring quietly at himself in a mirror, held up by nothing, everyone that had ever mattered to him stood in the background of this seemingly endless void, turned away.
He watched as his extremities slowly turned translucent.
More and more, as he faded.
He faded and no one noticed.
No one noticed.
He yelled and screamed but they didn’t turn back.
They never turned back.
Before he could lose sight of himself entirely
He woke up, drenched in sweat and panting.
Regaining his bearings, he stared out his window onto the eerie quiet of “nighttime” London.
That was weird.
That was very weird.
He expected tonight to be much of the same cacophony of war that plagued every other night.
But this was not something he had expected, or seen before for the matter!
He turned to his clock to see 3:43 shining ever so surreptitiously.
Bloody hell! it’s too early for work, and he can’t go to sleep again, so tea it is.
Sluggishly, he put his weight on his legs with all the delicacy that Sherlock maneuvers his chemistry equipment—really—the deftness and delicacy of his hand is something that is to be marveled at.
Sherlock as a whole is something to be marveled at…
John wonders if he ever felt unseen, or if his- everything, is so filled with personality that no one can ever ignore him.
This line of thought again…really…he should stop thinking about this.
Coming back to himself, John realized he had been standing in the same spot for god knows how long. He really needs his tea.
Tentatively, he sauntered down the stairs, one at a time, as to not awaken his flatmate, it’s been a tough case, he’s surely gone to bed now.
Stepping into the kitchen he’d kept his eyes fixed on the kettle, the kettle that would provide him his sweet ambrosia-the nectar of the gods-the salvation of man-his green tea!
After filling the kettle with water and plugging it in, he’d opened the cupboard and pulled out a teabag.
He’d noticed however that there were no cups by its side, he’d forgotten to wash them didn’t he…
Resigning himself to his fate he dragged his feet to the sink to grab a cup to wash.
“It wasn’t a ptsd induced nightmare was it?”
“Jesus! Sherlock!” John cried in surprise at the voice of his flatmate.
“You can’t just do that mate!” exasperation bled through his voice, as he bent over the sink, elbows balanced on its sides, as to regain his bearings.
“But I am perfectly able to do that” Sherlock replied, voice as deadpan as ever.
Pushing himself off the sink and turning around, John glared at his stupid detective, though Sherlock would definitely balk if he ever called him that.
Sherlock remained as languid as ever, lounging about on a chair at the dining table, showing no indication of noticing John’s glare that most would wither under.
“You’re supposed to be asleep, Sherlock.”
He lifted his head, from where it was laying limply, neck supported by the back of the chair, pointing his deductive stare at the doctor “Well, I’m not-it wasn’t a ptsd induced nightmare was it?”
“I didn’t hear any tossing or turning, your shirt is less messed up than when you usually awake from a nightmare, and you’re making green tea when you would usually make chamomile to help you sleep again.”
“It couldn’t have been anything about Harry either, there was a bottle of whiskey in the living room that you’d eyed briefly, but not with spite” He finished with a smug smile, “so what was it, John?”
John stood almost paralyzed mouth slightly agape at this man’s audacity, narrowing his eyes, mouth straightening to a tight line he glared with renewed passion at Sherlock “Drop it.” He commanded more than said
Sherlock’s smile widened marginally, eyes sparkling with curiosity “No I will not drop it, John” Maneuvering himself to sit properly in his chair, he rested his chin on his interlocked fingers, elbows resting on the table, piercing blue eyes took apart every inch of John, “It couldn’t be about the case, you hardly seemed uncomfortable with it and you weren’t even there for its finale—You were finishing your blog here anyway, you seem to enjoy that—so what else could it be?”
John huffed, as he glared at Sherlock with even more conviction, if that were even possible, “drop it Sherlock.” He barked, his tone leaving no room for questions.
Though Sherlock showed no indication of noticing his flatmate’s growing anger—typical—he continued on unflinching, “Wait! The blog, it was open to the comment section, though upon first glance there was nothing unpleasant there, they were just all about me, which makes sense since the blog is about me-”
“DROP. IT. SHERLOCK!” John growled, breath now coming in short pants.
If his glare could kill before, it could probably destroy the entire block at this point, “GOD! You love prodding where you’re not welcome, don’t you?”
“Are you satisfied!?”
“Did you get your answer!?”
The silence laid heavy on their shoulders, as Sherlock stared at John, eyes widened.
He’d finally managed to confuse the genius, a twinge of satisfaction rippled through him at the thought.
“I’m taking a walk.” John said as he stomped out of the kitchen.
“John, wait!” Sherlock called, voice barely heard as John shuffled his jacket on—how unlike him—but John barely bat an eye as he raced down the stairs and into the quiet street.