Chapter Text
There are too many types of tea. When did options like this become overwhelming? He stands in the aisle, his eyes flicking across the multi-coloured little boxes, each one blurring and morphing into the next until he can’t tell one from the other. He tries to recall the appearance of his usual brand – just regular PG Tips; it shouldn't be hard to find, but he just feels lost. Placing the basket carefully at his feet – disregarding the milk and bread already in there – he abruptly turns, flexes his fingers and walks straight out of the shop.
He walks with purpose, past 221 Baker Street and on to Regent’s Park, avoiding eye contact with anyone, avoiding any contact with anyone. He walks until his limp threatens to unbalance him and when he reaches a bench he sits, staring blankly at nothing.
He is seven years old and playing in the playground at the end of their street. The boys from next door invited him to come and play, but they've gone off to do something by themselves. Harry, the little monkey that she is, is clambering about in the big old tree at the other end of the park.
She calls out to him from the upper branches.
"John! Bet you’re too chicken to climb this high!"
He starts to walk across the playground. He can’t let a challenge like that stand. She’s hanging from a branch, one leg and one arm wrapped around it, waving at him with her free hand. He looks down to check his footing on the uneven ground and then she’s screaming, falling and hitting the ground with a sickening crack. He runs. She’s crying. He doesn't know what to do.
Later, after a trip to the hospital, x-rays, a sling and pain killers, Harry has been tucked up into bed and John is watching television with his mother in the sitting room.
"I want to learn how to fix people when they’re broken," he tells his mother. She looks over at him, notes his determined expression, and turns off the TV.
"When I grow up, I'm going to be a doctor, so I know how to help people when they’re hurt," he clarifies.
"Darling, I would love to see you become a doctor. You’d be an excellent doctor."
She turns more fully towards him and takes his hand. "But you know that since Daddy was hurt, he can’t work anymore. I'll do what I can, but it’s important for you to understand that we might not be able to support you at university."
A child’s scream jerks him back into the present and he glances around. There are children playing Tag; one child has just been tagged and is apparently unimpressed about it. He tries to find their antics amusing or endearing. They’re just intrusive. He stands and walks back towards Baker Street. There’s another bench, closer to the water but also in a less trafficked area of the park. He sits again, gazing at the water where the ducks are paddling and slips back into memory.
He is thirteen and meeting Harry after school so they can walk home together. She’d told him to meet him at the fence line past the playground, so he’s headed there when he hears yelling. He turns a corner and Harry is on the ground curled around herself, her school dress torn. Two of the boys she’d dated last year are fighting with Amy Farrow who is slapping, punching and kicking anything she can reach. John supposes three years of being bullied and harassed as a ‘lesbo’ must have given her plenty of practice in defending herself.
"Hey!" John yells, running over, "Get off!"
Both the boys run off upon seeing him, obviously not keen on even odds. Amy brushes herself off while John helps Harry to her feet.
"Okay?" Amy asks Harry, who nods, turning to John.
"Let’s go home, John."
Amy frowns. John shrugs at her. "You okay, Amy?" he asks. She nods, picks up her bag, and walks off in the opposite direction.
As soon as they get home, Harry shuts herself in her room. John looks up boxing classes, promising himself again that he will learn whatever is needed to help others.
The sun is starting to go down and he shivers. The park will be closing soon. He should go home before his shoulder stiffens, but he’s not quite ready to be alone in his dingy flat. He hasn't thought about Amy Farrow for years. He wonders how she got on and what she’s doing now. Hopefully, she’s doing better than he and Harry.
He’s nearly fifteen and the Career Fair is on. He’s already spoken to the representatives of all the universities present which offer a medical degree. They've all offered him the same pamphlets on available tuition loans, maintenance loans, scholarships and other forms of financial support. He’s slightly heartened that such assistance exists.
He turns to leave, pamphlets and university information in hand, when his eyes light on the Army recruitment stand. He wanders over, curious, and explains his interests and financial situation. The recruitment officer smiles, asks him to sit down, and explains how studying medicine through the Army works.
He takes all his pamphlets home and pores over them in his room. It occurs to him that joining the Army will allow him to study medicine and also learn to protect and fight.
He remembers that his acceptance into the Army’s medical training program had been the greatest moment of his life, then, and it was the first of many times when he would charge right through disappointment and other people’s expectations to reach his own goals.
He’s been a man so driven and so focussed for so long. How is this now his life? He’s essentially just run away from tea bags. Sherlock has been…gone…for four months now, and rather than pulling himself back up on his feet and striding purposefully forward, he’s allowed himself to get sucked into a vortex of self-loathing, guilt and depression.
He suspects he knows why. He’s spent years of his life learning to always know what to do, how to help, how to spare his loved ones from as much pain and anguish as possible. But when Sherlock stood on the edge of St Bart’s rooftop and told him to believe that he was a fake, John had understood what Sherlock was about to do and he’d gone blank. He’d fumbled his way through that phone call, trying to reach him, and he’d forgotten everything his one unit of psychology had taught him about suicide. He’d done everything wrong. And now Sherlock is buried beneath a simple black stone, John’s life is purposeless again and he feels broken.
It feels like his churning emotions are crawling up his throat and he realises what Sherlock must have been feeling up on that roof. He feels like everything he values has been stripped from him, he has no goals to strive for, nothing he wants to achieve. The blank nothing that his life has become yawns ahead of him, unending, and it terrifies him.
He pulls out his phone and dials a number he’d hoped never to need again.
"Hi, Ella, it’s John Watson. I think I need some help."