John Watson didn't believe in miracles. Years on the battlefield tend to do that, especially if everyday brought more soldiers under his fingertips, writhing in pain and hoping for the impossible. He wasn't necessarily pessimistic; he was hardened by the reality of death around him.
But there were two moments when John questioned his stubbornness
The first was on a walk in the park, the chilly afternoon warmed by the sun shining through the tree. John was alone, his psychosomatic limp aching with ghost pains. He was thinking about his predicament, being discharged from the army with little pay and no home. Perhaps he could...no, Harry would never help him.
"John?" a voice called out. "John Watson?"
John turned around, confused at the man walking towards him. The man chuckled, "Stamford, Mike Stamford. We were at Bart's together."
John awkwardly shook Mike's hand, unsure if he should remember the man or not. But what John didn't realize that was his first miracle.
John had changed a lot in the following years; he became a flatmate and a colleague to the most brilliant man on the planet. In time, he became a consultant, a friend, and the embodiment of grief.
But that was three years ago, repressed deep inside his psyche to the point where he even fooled his psychiatrist when he said, "I'm fine." He was dealing, has been dealing, with the initial shock and depression, and he was very thankful to have put it all behind him.
That didn't mean he was completely fine. In fact, the more John claimed he had healed, the more broken he became.
It wasn't until a few weeks later during an ordinary walk to Tesco that John found his second miracle. The experience wasn't much different form his first one; he was walking alone, thinking about what to do with his future, when a voice from nowhere called out his name.
"John?"
He didn't answer right away, how could he? The one man that voice could belong to had been dead for three years now. There was no chance, no chance at all it could be....
"John Watson?"
John slowly turned around, impossible hope filling his body until it burst. "Sherlock?" he choked.
The very last man he expected grinned and reached out to him, "I'm home."
John took Sherlock's hand and shook it firmly, "Don't go. Please."
"I don't have to," Sherlock replied. "My work is done."
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