Chapter Text
It was the sound of chaos that awoke Dr. John Watson in the middle of the night in his small humble cottage off in the woods of London. He had been experiencing a nightmare, the same one that always occurred every night. It was the one where Sherlock jumped off the roof of St. Bartholamew’s Hospital, landing with a deafening smash, causing his blood to spill on John. Even though John wasn’t close enough for such splatter all over his face and clothes in the actual event that happened two years ago, in the nightmare he was suddenly drenched in Sherlock’s blood, holding his friend and crying as hundreds of arms tried to drag him into the cement ground along with Sherlock’s cold decaying corpse.
Another type of sonic noise startled him from his wandering mind, causing him to get out of bed in his cotton pajamas which were over his sweaty body. He looked out the window in his bedroom, quietly searching for any traces of activity but found nothing. It was silent for a long moment until a bright light behind the trees caught his attention once again. As a reflex, John grabbed his hand gun from the dresser, held his walking cane in the other hand, and quickly put on his brown coat to find out what this strange gut feeling might be. He was drawn to this buzzing purple light that illuminated the tall circling trees, casting strange shadows everywhere.
“Don’t panic. You may be the only human being for miles on end in these woods but that doesn’t mean you’re doomed. This could be just a satellite that crashed.” John quietly spoke to himself as he held tight onto his gun in one hand which pushed past branches and leaves while he tried to not think about the pain that was shooting up his leg.
The cold yet still breeze of the midnight ambience chilled John Watson to the bones but he kept a strong stance never the less. He was not one to cower for any reasons beyond doubt. Suddenly he remembered the eerie vision of the demonic hound that travelled the woods of Baskerville and concluded that that fictitious mirage was much scarier than whatever laid beyond the trees. His gut kicked him when he remembered Sherlock having a blast scaring the bloody hell out of him that time in the laboratory. It was a memory he wished he still didn’t have for it was not resentment but fondness of the memory that hurt him. His lack of anger towards Sherlock for all his misgivings was only leveled by his own self-hatred for not having been able to stop the events that led to his fall. He hated himself for just standing there that moment, unable to say the words he always felt but could never reveal, even to himself. John wanted to tell him everything that moment. Even when there was nothing John could do to stop any of it, he hoped that his words might have made a difference. John imagined talking Sherlock back to the door, downstairs, and meeting him at the side walk, awkwardly waiting for some sort of revelation from each other. John swallowed the stinging feeling in his throat down deciding to put it aside for now as the moment called him to step past the barricade of trees. The final net of branches that were pulled apart by his hands revealed an astonishing discovery. There in the midst of broken trees and smashed gravel sat a space ship the size of his house and its purple light was coming from an opening where the door once should have been.
“What the bloody hell-“ John Watson carefully worked his cane towards the ship which was throwing off electric whips and crackles into the night air. There was a fair amount of smoke coming from what seemed to be the engines of the ship located at the bottom of the upright contraption. Its sleek black coat had a golden marking on it in an alien symbol that spoke nothing to John. He wondered if this could be his first real contact with extra-terrestrial life form from another galaxy with advanced civilizations. But instead of finding a green monster with tentacles and a giant brain, John Watson was awe stricken with the discovery of a human man lying unconscious, or possibly dead, inside the space ship. The dark haired man was faced down on the floor of the space ship and his clothing was also just as dark. The only fair part of him was his skin which was currently bruised with red scratches and blotches around his hands and neck. John was an experienced army doctor who would normally be quick to act but this odd occurrence had led him astray in his decisions. He did succeed in snapping out of his dilemma and quickly began to check the dark haired, possibly 6 feet - possibly alien, man for his pulse. With a resounding sigh of relief, John declared the man alive in his head and proceeded to try to wake him.
“Hello? Are you alright? Can you hear me?” John didn’t want to move the body in case of any serious damage but when there was no response from his light taps on the back, and the ship which was starting to crumble and malfunction; John had no choice but to grab the man’s right arm. John hoisted the weight of the man over his shoulder and carried him outside to safety, not realizing his cane was left inside the ship. “Aren’t you a heavy bloke?” John gasped as he did his best to bring the man to a patch of soft grass and gently set him lying on his back. At that moment everything in his body froze as his eyes finally caught the sight of the man’s face.
The small bloody scar on the broad forehead lead his gaze to the familiar devilish hair lines, the furrowed thick eye brows, the long lashes, the sharp cheekbones, the prominent straight nose, the deep cupid’s bow lips, and the all-around perfect structure of the face of Sherlock Holmes laid before him in a dishevelled unconscious state. Standing in utmost shock and bewilderment, John Watson couldn’t mutter a single word out of his open mouth. He wondered if this was a horrible trick, or if it was all a sinister prank by someone who wanted to test John, to mock him for his attachment to Sherlock Holmes. Maybe it was a new kind of nightmare that he was currently in right now but unaware of. John didn’t have any more time to think things through as the ship blew a fuse and the sound of breaking metal caused John to drop on top of the man who looked so much like Sherlock, and shield him from any flying debris. The ship did indeed explode with a sickening crack of purple blaze covering the entire meadow along with its parts of dented metal. Luckily none of it had landed on John who was still tightly covering the man’s head with his own head and arms as the rest of his body was bridged over him.
The man was still breathing when John had piggy backed him back to his cottage and placed his well-muscled body onto John’s bed. He made a mental note of how this space man was much bulkier than Sherlock had been with his slim and tender yet sculpted shape. It was possible that this man was a stunt double who just happened to look so much like Sherlock. The only way John would know would be to check for the mole on his neck. Sherlock had a special little mole at the side of his neck and it couldn’t be possible for a stunt double to be so exact. John didn’t bother to ask for permission since the man was unconscious anyways as he pulled the tight turtle neck down, showing an adam’s apple and right near it the famous mole.
“This can’t be. It’s not possible... No. For all of the shit Sherlock has come up with, this one… This can’t be you.” John felt the heaving pain in his chest and he pulled himself away from the too familiar Sherlock Holmes. He tried desperately to not to let the tears flow. He held himself stiff for a long moment, listening to the shallow breathing from the body behind him, and he found it oddly comforting. John began to slowly register that this may be a miracle in disguise. This was Sherlock Holmes. It has to be. It’s reasonable to say that after two years, whatever happened to him, made him what he was now. Also considering the space ship; Sherlock probably got into all sorts of trouble while away. Maybe it wasn’t aliens but the government. Maybe Mycroft had sent his brother off on a top secret space mission for some crazy reason and Sherlock found it best to just leave John for good after the convenient encounter with Moriarty. Maybe Sherlock was never supposed to come back and something went terribly wrong in space. “I really need to stop reading sci-fi fanfictions.” John sighed at the fact that this was what his life had been reduced to after Sherlock. The constant blogging of meaningless things, internet fanfictions, porn, occasional movies online, and just a whole mess of solitude that helped him cope with the reality of Sherlock’s death. He stopped looking to therapy a long time ago and found that seclusion would fit him best since everyone else who knew him and Sherlock closely kept bothering him and trying to comfort him. It had been too much for him to handle and he could still remember the day Mrs. Hudson smiled weakly at him as her usually vibrant and youthful gaze was aged and tired. It was full of comfort yet sadness and John knew he was the one guilty for that. But he needed to run and so he did. He needed to get out of the place which was a toxic reminder of Sherlock and the days they spent together, solving cases, arguing, laughing, and at rare moments; bonding. And John concluded after two years of contemplation, it was something beyond partners or flatmates or even friendship that they shared… had shared.
John thought he could never discuss any of this with Sherlock ever again but now he could. He could finally look at Sherlock and tell him everything he had pent up for the past years and more, even from the first time they met. Though the most urgent matter at the moment was cleaning Sherlock’s wounds and checking for any serious concussions. John went straight to preparing a wash cloth as well as grabbing his aid kit that he kept in the washroom for emergencies. He had set up everything needed to begin but it took quite a bit of hesitation to take off Sherlock’s uniform even though John was a doctor and this would be the most reasonable step for a medical check-up. Ignoring all his frustrations, John pulled off the possibly-Sherlock’s uniform, displaying the hard sculpted pecks and abdomen, along with the handsome amount of biceps that made John irritable in unmentionable parts of his body. The oddest thing that struck him about this man’s body was the ability to heal so quickly. His wounds were already half what they were when John had found him.
“Can’t be Sherlock. Not possible.” John exhaled suddenly realizing he had been holding his breath in. He observed that there was no serious damage to the body and cleaned whatever cuts and scratches it had. After a couple minutes, the task was done and there was nothing to do but stare at the pale, striking man who was only in his pants which were rolled up to his knees. The elevation of his broad chest when he breathed made John immensely blissful because in his eyes it was Sherlock before him; alive and safe. John drew the duvet over the strikingly handsome version of Sherlock and slowly got up from his chair.
With a look back at the still and slumbering body, John decided to head to bed as well. He paused for a bit, wondering if it would be too much to just get in bed with the man but he immediately snapped himself out of it, shaking his head. Turning his body towards the sofa in the other room, John quietly slipped into a shawl and slept soundly for the first time in two years.