Chapter Text
“To the very best of times, John,” he said with a sad smile and a firm handshake, then turned and headed for the jet. John fought the tears welling up in his eyes as the most dear person in the world to him was about to walk out of his life forever.
No, dammit, NO! John cursed himself furiously. I just got you back, they can't take you away from me again-!
“John! John Watson!”
John turned at the sound of his name being called, and beheld a cheerful, chubby man in a bright striped tie and spectacles coming toward him. He was suddenly standing in Hyde Park.
John blinked in confusion. Where was Mycroft and Mary? And...the tarmac? John looked back over his shoulder, but the setting behind him had changed too. Where was the ruddy plane?
“Stamford. Mike Stamford,” said John’s old buddy. “We were at Bart’s-”
“What's going on?” said John in confusion.
“Er, well, uh, I'm teaching now, actually. I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at.” Mike gestured toward John’s right hip.
“What?” John looked down to see he wearing different clothes then he had been a moment ago. In his right hand he was clutching a cane. “Oh no, no, no...Sherlock-”
John seemed to be having the weirdest episode of deja vu ever.
“‘Sherlock’?” said Mike. “You don't happen to mean Sherlock Holmes , do you?”
“He was just here-”
“Small world. He messes around at the labs at Bart’s sometimes. That's where I'm teaching nowadays. He's up there right now, doing some experiment on bruising of corpses-”
“I need to see him, Mike!” John exclaimed, gripping his arms. “Something weird’s going on, and Sherlock Holmes is the only one who can help me.”
“Yeah, alright, alright!” said Mike, taken aback. He patted John on the shoulder concernedly. “Poor bugger - the war wasn't good to you, was it?”
Five minutes later, they were at Bart’s, and John was staring through a window in disbelief.
Sherlock Holmes, just as John remembered him that fateful day they'd met, vigorously beating a corpse with a riding crop.
A young woman in a lab coat had appeared beside them. “He’s...intense, isn't he?” Molly Hooper said, gazing at Sherlock, infatuated.
“Yeah,” John muttered. Holy...
The man who was to be John’s best friend put down the riding crop, then studied the body, taking some notes on a pad.
“I'm Molly, by the way,” said the coroner. As if John didn't know one of his closest friends.
John spared her a smile. “Hello, Molly. I'm John.”
“Are you a friend of Sherlock's?” Molly asked.
John looked longingly through the glass. “Let's just say...I know him.”
Sherlock slipped his pencil and notebook into his pocket and came out into the corridor. “I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes. A man’s alibi depends on it. Text me,” Sherlock said to Molly. “I'll be upstairs.”
John licked his dry lips nervously. “Sherlock,” he called.
The detective stopped and looked back at him. “Have we met?” he asked.
John took his hands from his pockets and limped forward. He stood in front of Sherlock, opening up his body, inviting him to have a look. “Deduce me,” he said, determined.
Sherlock stared back at him, confused. Then, taking a step back, his eyes raked over John, seeing, observing, assessing.
John looked back at him, hardly believing it. His friend was so... young . But it was impossible. It had only been four years. But then, poor Sherlock had been through a lot in that short time. Coming back from his two year stint of being “dead” had put a lot of miles on his friend. And after John had proposed to Mary, it seemed to him that Sherlock had grown profoundly older - sadder - somehow. Made him softer.
Sherlock's brilliant eyes (which had looked at him so many times but never failed to send that pulse of electricity through John’s nerves) came back up to meet John’s gaze. “Left handed. Age, mid-to-late 30s, I'd estimate. Military, recently invalided, obviously. Limp, psychosomatic. Got some grey hairs, a few too many for a man of your age. Dark rings under your eyes from not sleeping well, all of which implies PTSD, which means you've got a therapist. Probably living in a bedsit now, hoping to go halves on a flat, which is why Mike brought you here. But...there’s more than that.” Sherlock stepped forward, and John involuntarily swallowed. Their faces were very close. “You look at me as if...you and I know each other. Intimately, in fact. However I've never seen you before this very moment. How is that possible?”
John took a deep breath. “Your full name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” he began. “You were born on January 6th, 1977. Your father’s name is Siger and your mother's name is Violet - she's a maths genius. You have an older brother named Mycroft who works for the government. The two of you don't get on, and to be fair, he is a bit of a wanker. You wanted to be a pirate when you were young, and had an Irish Setter named Redbeard, who your family had to put down. You went to Cambridge and are a graduate chemist. You're an ex-cocaine addict who's trying to quit smoking. You work as a consulting detective with Scotland Yard. You run a blog called The Science of Deduction which, frankly, no one reads. You're a genius who can tell things about people just by picking up on small details about them. But you're unusual and blunt so not many people are nice to you. You play the violin when you’re thinking. You have a skull you call Billy who you talk to. When you're bored, you're likely to shoot bulletholes into the living room wall. You have ridiculously sensitive skin which is why you wear your pajama shirts inside out, so the tag won't scratch you. You take your coffee black with two sugars. You keep body parts in the fridge which drives me up the fucking wall. You don't take near enough good care of yourself, especially when you're on a case, going without sleep and starving yourself until I force you to eat something or go to bed. And right now, you're looking at a flat, 221B Baker Street, owned by Martha Hudson, an old client of yours who was once married to a drug lord who you made sure was executed in Florida. Shall I go on?”
Mike, Molly, and especially Sherlock, were all standing there in silence, dumbfounded.
Finally, Sherlock opened his mouth. “Who... are you?”
“I'm Doctor John Watson. You’re my best friend. And I think I've been sent back in time.”