Past Lives

He's aware that Sherlock knows that there's more than meets the eye, but the consulting detective hasn't brought it up, perhaps because he's determined to deduce it himself. Or maybe because even he can somehow sense it's better to let sleeping dogs lie. Whatever the reason, John is grateful.

Because, honestly, he'd rather not drudge up the past it's taken him so long to forget. He's lost track of how many alter egos hide his true self, and that's just how he likes it. These days "Dr. John Watson" is perfectly fine.

When Sherlock had asked if he'd seen action, the man had no idea the extent of it. And even though he'd known that he shouldn't, even though he'd known this was too good to be true, he'd lapped up the chance to go out in the field anyway like a starving dog. So here he is, living out another yet another adventure with one of the most fascinating -and perhaps mad- people in the world.

Of course, this adventure isn't like the others. No fancy gadgets or disguises -at least not yet- no huge corporations or international crime organizations whose sting is as deadly as its acronym (though this Moriarty fellow is as close as he can get these days). Still, this promises to be a most interesting string of adventures that relies on just as much, if not more, mental stamina as physical.

Sherlock calls to him from downstairs, but the blond ignores him for the moment in favour of finishing his morning shave. That's another thing that's changed, he thinks- he isn't the cheeky little blighter he used to be, throwing sarcastic retorts at villains, usually as they were giving their victory speeches. He never was one for those, really. Such a time waster, but seeing as they gave him a chance to escape, he really ought not to complain. Despite all the bitterness following those years, he has still retained his wit and throws back a response that's sure to at least give the detective a moment's pause- just enough time for to rinse off the last of the shaving cream.

He looks into the mirror and sighs. Most days it's easy to forget the person he was all those lifetimes ago, the boy with the blond hair and brown eyes, the mad protege with a knack for landing himself in even madder situations. But there are days like these when the qualities he admires in Sherlock are the same ones that remind him of the life and people he's left so far behind. He knows there is no going back. He'd known it from the start, but he'd ignored it through boot camp and missions, sworn secrets and harsh arguments, everything until... No. He isn't going there, not now. He's been through this enough times to know that once he begins thinking about what happened that night, it won't leave his mind for quite awhile.

Slipping his shirt on, he stops to look at his battlescars. When he'd told Mike that he'd gotten shot, he'd neglected to mention that it wasn't the first time. He smiles grimly, remembering how he'd somehow gotten involved with a new mission while in the hospital after recovering from being shot by a sniper. Those were the days, when a new mission seemed to arrive every few months. Back then, he hadn't wanted it, because in all honesty he hadn't been ready no matter what Blunt had said. Now he craved the adrenaline rush. It's a much more effective painkiller than anything the doctor could prescribe.

Sherlock is quiet downstairs. That can't be good. The blond walks into the kitchen to find chemicals everywhere, and by the smell of the fumes, probably hazardous ones. John shakes his head and sighs resignedly at the sight of the consulting detective's prone figure. In a well-practiced motion he removes his comrade from the premises, then warns Mrs. Hudson and calls the authorities. Hanging up, he sighs.

He realizes that with Sherlock, life will never be the same again... but whoever says that it can't be any better than it used to be?