The Point of View of John Watson

    John could still see him sometimes.

    They were usually just flashes, out of the corner of his eye. If he turned to look, by the time he blinked, the image was gone.

    But occasionally, he could see him fully. As if he had come back from the dead.

    That afternoon, John woke up from a nap to the sound of a violin playing in the other room. He’d barely touched his tea before nodding off.

    He sat up, listening while he rubbed his eyes, and felt his heart begin to swell with nerves. It couldn’t be. That violin had sat, untouched, for half a year.

    He got out of bed at a snail’s pace, terrified that the smallest noise could scare the apparition away. So it took him a full minute to open the door to his room and peer out into the living room, but when he did, he felt a grin spread on his lips.

    There, by the window, was Sherlock Holmes.

    “Sherlock,” John whispered.

    He turned quickly and returned the grin, his black curls bouncing in the light from outside. “John,” he said curtly. “Good to see you haven’t redecorated. Put the kettle on?”

    “Black?”

    “That’s how I’ve always had it, what evidence do you have that says I’ve changed my habits?”

    “Of course,” John sighed. But as he headed to the kitchen and put some water on the stove, he was more than content as the sound of the violin filled the air. It was a happier tune than Sherlock normally played, more upbeat and positive – nothing melodramatic or depressing.

    Sherlock had opened all the window shades, so the light of day was filtering in and illuminating the apartment that John had tried to keep in the dark for months. Everything was as it should be.

    But just as John was about to bring Sherlock’s tea to him, there was a knock on the door. The violin music abruptly stopped.

    “Mrs. Hudson?” John called, setting the two teacups on the coffee table. He made his way to the door and opened it, expecting their housekeeper to be standing there with the mail or a plate of cookies she’d baked. But instead, he opened the door to a wiry man wearing a bowtie. “Who the hell are you?”

    “John Watson!” the man cried, grabbing John’s hand and shaking it vigorously. “I mean, eh, you’re John Watson. Not me. But what a pleasure to meet you, finally!”

    John shook the man’s hand but was sure to stand in a way that blocked him from entering. “What – you – uh, excuse me? How did you even get in this building?”

   “Oh, simple sonic technology, it was no trouble, don’t you worry!” The man grinned sheepishly and clapped his hands together. “Now, on to business.”

    John gaped as the man pushed him aside and trotted into the flat. “I’m sorry, but you need to leave –”

    “Ooh, tea!” The man grabbed hold of Sherlock’s cup and breathed it in. “You don’t mind, do you?”

    “Listen, whoever you are –”

    “The Doctor!” He took a large sip. “Call me the Doctor.”

    “All right then…” John shut the door behind him with a heavy sigh. “You’re a doctor. So am I.”

    The Doctor was inspecting the dust on the mantelpiece as if it was a thousand year old artifact. He turned abruptly and quipped, “No, no, not that kind of doctor.”

   “So what kind?”

    “Well – everything, just about!” He ran a finger through the dust and squinted at it. “I figure, why bother limiting yourself to such a narrow parameter when you can feel the wind on your face and taste the stars? Oh, it can get dizzying sometimes, but when you can go anywhere and anytime you want, who cares? What I do care about, though –”

    All of a sudden the Doctor whirled around on his heel to face the other side of the room.

    “ – is that. Yes, that I care very much about.”

    And he pointed his finger right at Sherlock, who pretended not to notice and went back to playing the violin.

    “That’s Sherlock,” said John softly. He was surprised that the Doctor could see him at all. Mrs. Hudson had never been able to, no matter how many times John had tried to convince her.

    “Oh, I know. I would recognize him anywhere.”

    “You knew Sherlock?” He didn’t exactly look like the kind of man Sherlock would’ve gotten chummy with. “Did he help you with a case?”

    The Doctor frowned, his eyebrows furrowed deeply. “You could…say that, yes. But I personally think we helped each other. The Silence can get tricky. He had no idea how to deal with aliens – which I don’t expect anyone to, of course not – but he had a certain knack for it, shall we say, a good memory. A beautiful mind.”

    “That’s what everyone tells me. Insane, but brilliant,” sighed John, as he folded his arms. Then something dawned on him. “Wait – did you say…”

    “Aliens?” The Doctor turned and grinned. “Why yes, I did.”

    Was this guy serious? Sure, people believed in aliens, but Sherlock wasn’t one of those people. Aliens had nothing to do with reason or fact or deduction. They were fantasy; a subject that Sherlock distinctly abhorred.

   “Tell me John, hasn’t it bothered you that you can see your former flat mate after you buried him in the ground?”

    John snapped out of his alien-induced daze. “No. It - makes logical sense. Trauma, you know. Does things to you,” he muttered, looking down. “I figure it’s post traumatic…hallucinations. Happened to me after I left Afghanistan.”

    “Yes, sure, but think John. You’re a doctor, you said? Keen eyes, I like that, nice, keen eyes. That’s what you’ve got. So take a good luck at your life and tell me,” the Doctor leapt over the couch and stared into John’s eyes at an uncomfortably close distance, “why didn’t you see him right away? Why has it only been this past month?”

    John’s stomach sank. He had thought it strange, that it had taken five months for him to appear. But he’d disregarded it.

    “You’ve got a good memory too, I reckon. So surely you remember that after you left Afghanistan, the nightmares and hallucinations started right away?”

    He did remember. He remembered every second of torture he endured before he finally came to peace with what had happened to him. And this – this was different.

    The Doctor began to pace, talking more to himself than to John. “Now, you might say that this is a different situation. Completely different, of course, couldn’t be any more dissimilar! Different trauma, different reaction? Makes sense. Except, it doesn’t!” He whirled around to face John. “Nothing here makes sense, Doctor Watson. And especially not you.”

    “Me?” John repeated. He felt his leg tense, and he grabbed hold of a chair to balance himself.

    “Yes, you. John Watson, Mr. Army Doctor, Mr. I-Don’t-Rely-On-Anyone-Else. After Sherlock died, you couldn’t stand being in your flat. Couldn’t stand being locked away with your thoughts, right? So you walked. Everywhere. You spent every waking moment outside with strangers if you could, or visiting Sherlock’s grave. Now, what changed?”

    “I – I don’t – nothing!”

    “Think, John! You’re not daft, think!

    “I’m serious! I can’t think of anything!”

    The Doctor was suddenly all rage and fire. “There’s something wrong here! You lived with Sherlock for almost two years, surely you picked up just a little bit of god damn common sense! Look around and tell. Me. What. Changed!”

    “NOTHING!” John screamed, alarmed at his own volume. He felt his anger and desperation pulsing through his veins. “Nothing, I repeat, nothing has changed in the past six freaking months! I’ve been alone. In this flat. Without anyone, without any hope, without my best friend. Just me and my god damn thoughts!”

    The Doctor’s eyes were narrowed into slits while he stared at John. But slowly, they widened, his face paling. He looked down at the tea cup in his hands and gasped, throwing it down at the ground. It shattered into hundreds of tiny shards.

    John flinched. That had been Sherlock’s favorite mug, and it was destroyed. “You total arse -”

    “Tea,” the Doctor said.

    “Excuse me?”

    “The tea! Oh, how could I be so stupid?” the Doctor threw his hands up in the air and then pursed his lips together. “I couldn’t see Sherlock when I walked in the room. But when I drank that tea, I could. Of course! John, where do you keep your teabags?”

    “I really don’t think –”

    “Don’t worry, I’ll figure it out.”

    The Doctor flew into the kitchen, tearing through cabinets and opening drawers until he found the box of tea bugs. “A-ha!” he cried, grabbing one and tearing it open. The leaves spilled out all over the counter, and he took a few between his fingers. Then he pulled out a long metal wand with a blue light at the top, and aimed it at the leaves.

    John stared at him for a moment, and then turned back to Sherlock. He rolled his eyes and muttered something along the lines of, “amateur.”

    The Doctor looked at his metal wand and grinned ear to ear. “I knew it!” he cried. “Your tea has been poisoned, John Watson.”

   John felt the color drain from his cheeks. “P – poisoned?”

    “Oh, not like that! You aren’t going to die,” the Doctor said with a laugh. “It’s been contaminated with a very specific kind of psychic pollen. It feeds on the grief centers of your mind, makes you unable to move on in a very specific way. That’s why you can see Sherlock. It’s not post-traumatic hallucinations at all!”

    “And why, precisely, would anyone contaminate John’s morning tea?” Sherlock asked, un-amused.

     “Oh hush Sherlock, you’re not even real,” the Doctor said.

    Sherlock frowned at the strange man while he ran over to the other side of the flat, peering out the windows down to the street.

    “Only a very specific person has the means and the motive to infect you with psychic pollen John,” the Doctor sighed. “And I’m afraid they’re heading here right now.”

   Frowning, John went over to the window and looked down. There, walking across the street, were two men – one a tall blonde in a suit, the other a shorter, darker man with a sniper rifle across his back. “Who the hell are they?” he asked.

     “You’re not going to like this, John,” the Doctor whispered, “but that one there, is Sebastian Moran. He works for Jim Moriarty.”

    Moriarty. The last name John wanted to hear. “But – but he’s dead.”

    The Doctor sighed, heavily. “Not…exactly.”