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Sherlock let his hands whip the laid out corpse in front of him just as harshly as the five times before. If his theory worked that would mean revolutionary progress for future murder investigations and he simply couldn’t lay off the chance to study something as crucial as the formation of bruises post mortem, especially if it meant letting the whacking sound of this experiment clear his mind.
Footsteps started sounding down the hallway, barely being covered by the continuous smacks against the long cold and pale skin. Sherlock could make out the distinctive sound of a limping leg and a cane getting closer. The room he was in was the last in this corridor and the steps didn’t seem to want to stop before having reached the very end of it. Something about this pace seemed more familiar than Sherlock wanted to admit to himself. He wasn’t expecting any guests voluntarily, but he had told one of the staff members of this clinic about searching for someone to share his flat and its costs with earlier that day. He suspected that this man must have found someone he had deemed suited for being his roommate. A hint of the habitually even rhythm that had carried these feet despite the limp suggested a past in the military. But he was ripped out of his analysis by something he noticed on the corpse. There, right where he had been hitting it, he could see exactly what he had been hoping for: a clear difference between the bruises!
A sense of excitement rushed through his nervous system, he had done it! “Aha! I’ve found it!”, he couldn’t help the joyful exclamation, “I’ve found it!” Sherlock stumbled a few pleased steps back in celebration, lifting his arms up, before a voice he hadn’t heard in years spoke up: “And what is that?”
All the cheerfulness that had started just a moment ago froze in his veins immediately. He knew this sound. The owner of it used to go everywhere with him, had been his voice of reason for many years, had brought him great comfort, while, of course, not being real.
No, surely he must’ve misheard. Now that he thought about it, did the tone he had just perceived even actually remind him of his long lost imaginary friend? Jon used to speak in a very casual style, the man that had just entered the room sounded rather reserved. Sherlock needed to get it together.
It was then that he realized that his gaze had been fixed to the floor, instead of greeting the unknown guest properly, as he presumed he should have if this was going to be his new roommate. So he lifted it, fully prepared to give this man an elaborate and quick-witted answer to explain his research, until his eyes landed on his guest’s face.
All words seemed to have slipped Sherlock’s mind in that moment. Not a single sound was willing to come out of his mouth. He couldn’t help but stare at this face. Jon’s face, he was certain this time. He almost wouldn’t have recognized it with the civilized and less youthful hairdo. Not to mention the irritating mustache and the touch of grayness of it all. He felt something break, as it dawned on him just how much older, weathered and quite frankly defeated his old friend was looking now. But no, this wasn’t Jon, he had to remind himself. Jon wouldn’t be here for him, as he didn’t need to rely on someone imaginary any longer. He was gone. This face may have looked like it might just start calling him Sherry and challenge him for entertainment again, but it certainly wasn’t the friend he had lost, if one could even say he had him in the first place.
Still, the man was looking at him with those expectantly observing eyes that he knew so well, but which didn’t seem to recognize him. Sherlock had to turn away to suppress this sudden wave of melancholy. He nodded, as if that would make it any easier to accept. He tried to gather the strength to look at the unbelievably familiar guest again. “How far, uhm, bruises may be produced after death!”, he managed to finally answer, nervously fiddling with some of his fingers, before stilling this motion by cupping one hand with the other. His voice wasn’t being as steady as he wished it would.
He shot a glance over at Jon the man, quickly and, if he was being honest, rather sloppily checking for the confirmation of tanned skin and a steady, if worn down, posture. He was indeed speaking to a soldier. “How are you?”, his voice was still the shakiest it had ever been. The corpse in front of him would have to serve as a fixation point for his stare, instead of the eyes of a man who Sherlock felt might judge his sudden lack of confidence that he’d usually have carried so naturally. Although he knew that this would certainly not be the case, as this man did not actually know him. “You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive.”, Sherlock added.
The stranger seemed genuinely surprised by his words. “How on Earth did you know that?”, he asked, obviously impressed, but in a tone that was so much calmer than Sherlock remembered. He decided to switch the conversation back to a topic that he was more prepared for: “Nevermind. The question now is about bruising.” His voice had cracked yet again, but he kept going anyway this time. “No doubt you see the significance of this discovery of mine?”
Jon The guest huffed in response, not seeming half as nervous as Sherlock was feeling. “It is interesting, no doubt, but… practically-“ Sherlock cut him off and took the chance to go into a deep reaching ramble, on the one hand to avoid wondering about why Jon’s voice sounded so much more polite now when he used to be so demanding, despite emphasizing sentences similarly to before, but on the other hand also to gain traction within this conversation and get rid of those shaky voice cracks. He started walking around the room a bit. “Why it is the most practical medico-legal discovery for years! Had we these data sooner, hundreds of men would have paid the penalty of their crimes. Cases oft hinge upon how a man died. Now, we can know which wounds he suffered alive, which occurred post-mortem and what instrument was responsible. And ergo,”, he could feel the man’s gaze resting gently on his back now, “One will soon be able to calculate with utmost precision when and where death occurred, sparing the innocent and damning the guilty.” Sherlock was finally covering the bruised corpse on the table with a cloth.
The guest seemed impressed, as Sherlock used to read in Jon’s diary regularly. “Then you are to be congratulated.” “Indeed.”, the monologuist was a bit out of breath now: “But you came here on business.” Another awestruck huff. As if this man had never seen him do this before. “Correct again! I am looking for someone with whom to take diggings and heard you were complaining that you could get no one to go halves with you?” “I have my eye on a suite in Baker Street which would suit us down to the ground. You don’t mind the smell of strong tobacco, I hope?”, he made sure to reply quickly, still hesitant as to what to make of this situation. Was he hallucinating again? Did his imaginary friend return? Was he not done coping yet? Or was this actually just some man who looked and sounded like the very essence of who this friend used to be? Nervously observing this supposed stranger now, he studied the replying facial expressions, the narrowed eyebrows, the shaking head, the now slightly more casual tone of voice, the similarities were almost unbearable. “I smoke ‘ship’s’ myself”, was the answer.
Sherlock didn’t understand why the thought of this man being Jon didn’t want to leave his mind. It didn’t make any sense at all logically, so why was his brain so fixated on this matter? “That’s uhh good enough.”, he heard himself saying. Well, if this man really wasn’t Jon, he supposed he would have to warn him about his foibles. Back when it was just Jon and him, he never had had to introduce these parts of himself to anyone else, as his best friend had known him well enough. “I get in the dumps at times and don’t open my mouth for days on end. Just let me alone and I’ll soon be alright.” The man didn’t seem too bothered by that and Sherlock could feel himself getting slightly more comfortable speaking to him. “What have you to confess now? It’s the best for two fellows to know what bruises each other carries before they begin to live together.” He hesitated and decided to start: “My last companion and I…”
He wasn’t sure where he would have taken this sentence if he had gotten to finish it, but the guest had already interrupted him in his strangely gentle voice: “Well, I object to rows because my nerves are shaken and I get up at all sorts of ungodly hours.” Sherlock would’ve expected no less, judging by the past in the military. “And I am extremely lazy.” Now that was something that reminded him of the Jon he knew. “I have another set of vices when I’m well,”, his guest continued, “but those are the principal ones at present.”
Now was Sherlock’s chance to impress Jon with his new skill, just in the unlikely case that he was listening somehow, he proclaimed a bit louder: “Do you include violin-playing in your category for rows?” Chuckling very slightly his guest answered: “It depends on the player! A well-played violin is a treat for the gods - a badly-played one-“ “Oh, that’s alright! I think we may consider the thing as settled…”, Sherlock wanted to get to know more about this mystery man with the almost eerily familiar presence. He wasn’t sure if this would be a good idea yet, but he just had to be certain about this matter.
“Oh, forgive my manners - my attention.. wavers. Sherlock Holmes.”, he finally introduced himself properly. With a nod, his soon-to-be roommate replied: “Doctor John Watson.”
And with that his muscles seemed to tense again, only this time it brought a certain sense of confirmation. There would be more to this. He needed to find out what it was. Needed to cling to the mystery of the familiar army doctor. So one more time he said the name:
“Jon?”