The Reality That Doesn't Exist

(All right, all right. Here it is, Mycroft. Happy?) I don't care what day it is or what year. I only know it's hardly been that long since I was invalided home from Afghanistan. And now, here I am. In stupid, bloody, miserable London. I hate it. I absolutely hate it. God, I just want to go back. Is that too much to ask for? I inhale deeply. Well, it seems so. I cover my face and sit on my bed, thinking. I'm low on cash, staying here is costing me more than I thought. Might have to find somewhere else. But where in the world would I go to? In my desk drawer lies my laptop. And about as soon as I would open it, my blog would pull up. The one my therapist forced me to get. The one I haven't touched since I got it. What the hell would I write about anyway? Nothing happens to me. I have an appointment with my therapist, but I avoid it. I don't want to see her. What good will seeing her do me? I force myself to get up and get dressed, but without a real reason to. I just don't want to be here, and that's a good enough reason for me. So, I go outside to take a...not a walk. Not a breath of fresh air. Because London isn't. Whatever I do, I'm outside. Walking. And I pass some benches and a few people. Till I hear one of them calling my name. (Enter Mike Stamford. Tyler, this is you.)

Mike, sitting on a bench in the park to have some peace and quiet during his lunch hour away from Bart's. Or he would be if he wasn't mentally rehearsing giving a lecture for his first year's. Having got through most of it he looked up the path.

Bloody hell, that looks like John. Yeah, it is.

"John! John Watson!" Certainly looks different. But so am I.

"Stamford. Mike Stamford. We were at Bart’s together." he prompted with a jovial smile stepping forward to speak to his old friend.

I turn about and am almost blown out of the water. "Oh. Yes. Mike, of course. Sorry. Hello." Bloody hell, is that really him? "Nice to see you again." I shake his hand in greeting.

Mike stuck out a hand in return and smiling shook John's hand warmly. He paused for a moment and glanced down at his figure rounded by too many substantial dinners for the days spent sitting reading piles of student's paperwork. “Yeah, I know.” he grinned gesturing to his waistline. “I got fat!”

Mike wanted to catch up on John's news while he had chance. “You're as brown as a nut! Rumour had it you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?”

"Oh, yeah. Thanks!" I said sarcastically and rolling my eyes. "That's exactly what I want to hear from you. John, you've turned into a nut. Or John you've turned into an orange. But come on, Mike. You're not fat. Can't help having gained a little over the years. I'm still a bloody flagpole over here. I don't know how that's even possible that I haven't gained anything, except age. But you want to know what happened? I got shot."

Mike grinned at John's reply. Same kind-hearted John, still like a bean-pole. He felt at ease with her until she gave him the news he didn't expect at all. Got shot. That sort of crap only happened to people he didn't know not to friends. Not to John for God's sake. He was suddenly embarrassed at having asked and it explained why John sounded, well, not quite like the John he knew. “Ah.” he paused to recover. “What're you doing here then visiting, passing through or renting a place?”

"Renting? I can't afford London on my Army pension. A lot less than I thought it would be. And I'm not really visiting or passing through either. I'm just...here. That's all I know." I tell him. I can tell he was shocked when I told him I'd been shot. And a bit flustered that he'd asked. I didn't mind. It was meant to happen one way or another. Couldn't be helped, but I do wish it hadn't added to the list of reasons why I was invalided home. Why? Why did that have to happen? I'd finally reached to the point where my life was happy again, after the death of my...mother. And my father too. My sister drinking and... I pushed that from my mind. I had other things to think about. For instance, what WAS I doing here?

Mike knew John didn't get on with her sister so she'd never ask her for anything but if it was just financial matters he thought he had a good solution for John's problem with accommodation. "Have you thought of flat-sharing? I know a guy who is looking for someone to share with." he looked at his watch. "He'll still be at Bart's now actually."

It was a two minute walk round the corner from where they were and Sherlock would still be up in the lab.

A guy? A guy? Not that I have anything against men personally, but wouldn't it be just a bit awkward staying with a man I'd never met and sharing a flat with him? Never the less, I fix my blond hair that's starting to grow back to its proper length into a ponytail. I'm not one to overly care about my appearance, but I at least like to look nice. "Flat-sharing? Who in their right mind would want me for a flat mate? But if he needs someone to share with... I wouldn't really have a problem with it, but I would like to actually meet him. So, I guess we're going to Barts' then. God, it's been a long while since I've actually been back." I say to him. So he and I walk the short two miles to Barts', and he talks more about his teaching and different things. (Now, Sherlock Holmes, this is only IF you want to. You can, if you like, insert a little bit of Sherlock's actions and such BEFORE the meeting. And it doesn't have to be like the miniseries bit. It's okay if you don't want to insert it. It can be left out. Either way is fine, having it in or out.)

Mycroft sat back at his Whitehall desk and regarded his... whatever the term was for her. Anthea--Medea, or Athena, or Ariadne, or Maia, whatever name she had chosen that week--sat down in the chair opposite and crossed her shapely legs, resting the files she had been carrying across her knee. "I have the files you wanted, sir. There are some interesting candidates."

"You're read them?"

"Of course, sir. I weeded out the ones I felt were too bland. There were more than thirty originally."

"That many? How many are left?"

"Seven."

Mycroft deigned to raise an eyebrow. She had been nothing if not conscientious and he knew she'd saved him a job. He reached out a hand and she passed the small pile across. There was precious little in each one, considering how thin the overall stack was. One, however, was thicker than the rest and this one Mycroft opened first. Oh yes. Very...nice.

"Thank you, my dear. I think you may leave me for now. I shall be working late tonight." Mycroft watched her go and opened the top file again. Captain John H Watson, RAMC, MC, he read. He stopped and glanced at the photograph. No, it was a woman, short sandy hair against a bright porcelain blue Afghan sky, blue eyes watching the camera lens warily. John? He wondered briefly why a woman should be called John, such an obviously male name. Then he shrugged. Who was he to question what she wanted to be known by? Probably her parents had wanted a boy. He would ask about it when they met. And they would meet, he would see to it. She might actually stay the course. If, that is, he didn't succeed in wooing her first. She really was quite attractive...

Sherlock Holmes was working hard in the lab at St Barts hospital. After five minutes of beating a corpse with a riding crop he was stooped over the microscope collating results. The case he was working on wasn't particularly difficult however, and he had other things on his mind.

After another argument with his landlord which was the final straw, he was being forced to move out of his flat in Montague Street. There was a really nice place in Baker Street going, and the landlady Mrs Hudson had already offered him a special deal on the rent. Even so, it was pretty pricey, and there was no way he would be able to afford it on his own. Annoyingly, this meant he would have to find a flatmate. Him. Sherlock Holmes. A flatmate. An impossible task he had been lamenting to an acquaintance of his, Mike Stamford, only earlier that morning.

Sighing and turning over the problem in his mind again, he got back to his work, trying to focus.

Mike was inwardly smiling as he chatted and walked along with John to the teaching Hospital because he rather fancied he was doing two people he liked a good turn all at once. He was sure John and Sherlock Holmes would get on well together.

He escorted John through the side entrance and hung his coat up in the staff room then took her upstairs through the busy corridors to the labs. Glancing through the toughened glass window he saw Sherlock leaning over a petrie dish dropping a chemical into it with a pipet. He knocked quietly so as make their presence known before opening the door for John and followed her in.

Mike escorts me on the way in. Awful nice of him, though it's not like I don't remember the way. And it's not like I couldn't have walked through the door by myself. I enter the room. My breath is taken away. Plenty of high-tech modern equipment, pristine condition. Huge table right in the center of the room. Everything where you need it. And the room itself is...enormous. "Whoa. Bit different from in my day." is all I can say. I then manage to actually notice someone else is in the room. Working. Is that him? The man Mike was talking about? Hmm. Bit good-looking, I suppose. Bill, though... God, I love him. No man could look better than he does. While my thoughts drift off, I get a text. From Bill. "John. What about you meeting me at the Criterion tonight? Got something I'd like to tell you. Bill." Oh my god. He's gonna propose. Shh, John. Keep concentrated.

Mike half smiled and left John looking around while he took a seat. He thought that John would find there had been some changes to the place.

“John, an old friend of mine.” he addressed Sherlock and sat back to see what would transpire.

((Do you still need me as a molly? this looks amazing!!))

((Yes, just not RIGHT this second. I'll tell you when. But thanks! Right now, we're waiting for Sherlock Holmes to respond...))

Sherlock glanced up as there was a knock on the door, and Mike came in followed by a young lady. His eyes quickly darted her up and down. Obviously from a military background, but then her remark, she'd been to Barts before, trained there perhaps. An army doctor? Seemed the obvious choice.

Did Mike just introduce her as 'John'? Sherlock frowned a little. Odd choice of name for a girl. Must be lesbian. He shrugged.
"Mike, can I borrow your phone?" He asked. "Got no signal on mine."

( ok just tell me when lovie )

((EXCUSE ME??? EXCUSE ME??? WHAT did you just say I must be, SHERLOCK HOLMES??? I might ACTUALLY punch you in the face for that one. Lol. Harriet is but John isn't.))

I was a bit surprised that he didn't actually respond to what Mike said. He didn't even look at me or say "Oh, hello" or some other greeting. It's just a bit awkward, now I'm standing here feeling like a ring of power slipped onto my finger and I turned invisible and I didn't know it... (( LOL, sorry.)) or like I turned into a sofa. ((Again, sorry. I'm having too much fun making references...)) ((And, okay. I will, Molly luv.))

All seven files later and not one had come up to the standard of the first one Mycroft had pored over. He had paid attention to all John Watson's details; her military service, honours and exemplary conduct as well as her other...assets. She really was very brave, resourceful and compassionate as well as cool under fire and under...other pressures. She had saved countless lives as an army surgeon, a career to be proud of. Although now...

It was a shame she had effectively been discharged and expected to get on with her life without the thing she so obviously loved--the army. Her injuries had left her with issues, that was only to be expected. Mycroft tut-tutted. She had an atrocious record for the follow-up therapy. Obviously her counsellor was not suited to her needs. There was an obvious incompatibility there that Mycroft was honestly surprised had not been picked up in review. Her physical recovery seemed to be progressing well however.

He should invite her to dinner before popping the question. After all, the job was a unique one and should in no way be a rushed decision. At least this would give her some form of income and a purpose in life. Satisfied, Mycroft paged Anthea and requested her presence, informing her that he had made his choice. A swift text came back.

On my way, sir. I took the liberty of having Doctor Watson placed under surveillance. She's currently at Bart's Hospital. A.

Mycroft allowed himself a small smile. That meant Anthea had accurately predicted which one he would choose. He replied almost at once.

Do we know what she's doing there? Job hunting? MH

She appears to already have made your brother's acquaintance, sir. They were introduced by a mutual friend.

Friend? Mycroft wondered. Sherlock didn't have friends.

"Interesting," Mycroft murmured. The door opened and Anthea came in, ever present Blackberry in her hand, more folders under her arm. "Get your coat my dear," Mycroft instructed her. "I have a little job for you..."

Mike was amused because he didn't know what Sherlock would make of John having a traditional boy's name. Sherlock had an uncanny talent for appraising people and situations in a very short time. He almost felt guilty knowing what was going to happen, but what the hell, John would forgive him. In time. Maybe.

"What's the matter with using the landline?" He would have offered Sherlock the use of his mobile but he always left it in his coat. Sherlock couldn't have forgotten that surely.

"Sorry, it's in my coat downstairs." he replied without getting up from his seat.

((Dang. MAHolmes, you are amazing. Seriously. And phew, on your response Tyler. I was getting a little anxious...It happens when you're suffering from a paradox.)) Oh. That's right. Mike didn't have his phone. I wondered what this man would say or do, next in response. What was his problem with using a landline?

"I don't want to use the landline," Sherlock muttered, mildly annoyed as he continued his work, still not particularly paying much attention to Stamford or the girl with the unusual name.

"I prefer to text," he added. It was a much quicker, faster medium, and it meant you didn't have to bother with any of the usual distractions and small talk. Sherlock hated small talk.

(HOLY HOUND OF BASKERVILLE, I AM SO SORRY!!! I didn't get any updates or anything, I didn't know you responded until I checked! ) Oh. I can understand that. Well, then. If he really needed a phone, I could give him mine. It didn't matter whether I knew him or not. I wasn't just going to stand there when I could do something about it. I dig into my jacket pocket, take out my phone, hold it in my left hand, and say "Here. You can use mine."

Sherlock glanced up, surprised to have heard a female voice ring out through the lab. He realised John was offering to lend him her phone.

"Ah. Thank you," he muttered, raising a quizzical eyebrow as he crossed the room to take it from her outstretched hand. No one ever did things like that. Unrequested favours. /Nice/ things, for no particular reason. It threw him off guard.

He flipped open the phone and began typing, one eye still on John.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?" He asked coolly, trying to keep the smirk off his lips as he knew she would be taken aback.