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John just wanted it all to end.
The pain, the suffering, the emptiness. It was all too much.
"John. John Watson!" the portly man shouted. John tried to ignore him, but he was insistent.
John hadn't seen Mike Stamford since their days at St. Bart's.
"I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at. What happened?" Mike asked, keeping pace with the ex-Army doctor.
"Got shot." John replied blankly.
The old friends shared a coffee and caught up with each other's lives.
"Who'd want me for a flatmate?" John quipped.
Turned out, Mike knew exactly who.
"The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street."
Suddenly, John had so much to live for.
Four suspicious suicides.
"It's a three-patch problem!"
A dead cabbie with John on the firing end of the gun.
An orange blanket.
Chinese smugglers and a travelling circus.
Sarah.
A 9 million pound hairpin.
"Bored!"
Head in the fridge.
Top secret files.
Five pips.
Jim Moriarty.
Ah yes, Sherlock thought, "Something new."
A bomber; a nemesis; Jim Moriarty.
And then the pool.
Jim has John. A bomb strapped to his body.
No! Not John!
Consulting criminal. Brilliant!
"Are you okay?", Sherlock asks anxiously.
He cares. Why does he care? John is his friend.
"Catch you later."
"People might talk." John jokes.
At least they're not bored.