TITLE: The Other One

CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter One/ Not Dead

RATING: T (violence/language)

A/N: I started writing this one quite a long time ago, way before series 3 aired. So, Sherlock is back, but you can disregard the rest of the series. Sorry. I don't feel like rewriting. This story is set in Sherlock's world in present time. This is an AU Merlin who is the third Holmes brother and doesn't have magic. Sorry, no Camelot or dragons! Plenty of angst, family bonding, hurt, whump, bamf, and even a guest appearance by a favorite villain.

Review please?

Chapter One: Prologue (Not Dead)

Being a doctor, and then a soldier, John Watson had a very, pragmatic, view of death. It wasn't cold or distant, but neither did he dwell on denial or bargaining when someone close to him passed on. He knew the facts. He had studied them late into the early morning hours until they were fused into his brain cells during medical schools. And he had seen them played out both at Bart's, and in Afghanistan.

To John Watson, dead was dead.

There was no coming back. No second chance. No denying. No bargaining. He didn't curse God when his mother had been stolen from him in that car accident. He hadn't attempted to make a deal with any deity when his father fell victim to a heart attack. There was, of course, anger. He latched onto that stage of grief greedily. But those other two, he passed right over.

Dead was dead.

That was, of course, until John Watson stood over Sherlock Holmes' grave, and begged. Of course, even then, he wasn't seeking out a higher power. He wasn't just bargaining, John Watson, was begging. Something he had done only once before in his life, when a bullet had burrowed its way into his shoulder and fever so fierce it had him seeing his dead parents consumed him.

Please, God, let me live.

He hadn't been dead yet. There was still time. Not much. But some. Until the final curtain call, John was allowed to beg.

That was the rule. He had pleaded and cried over his mother's hospital bed, but the moment that line had dropped flat, the moment he felt his mother leave him, he had stopped.

As long as there was time left, no matter what, John would fight, claw, implore, bargain, whatever he had to do to save himself or the life of someone else. But once death won, he relinquished the battle. It was what kept him going as a doctor, and what kept him sane as a soldier. He could not dare to dwell on the young men and women after they had been shot or blown to bits. He could not plead for an already passed on patient, when there was another one, still alive, waiting for his healing hands.

Yes, for John Watson dead was dead.

And yet -

Please, Sherlock.

One more miracle, for me.

Don't be, dead.

Stop this.

The words still rang in his ears some nights when he was on the precipice of sleep, the nightmares slowly fogging in around him, like the blurred edge of his vision after one too many drinks.

Even now, with the dreams gone and the detective back, very much alive, John could still hear his small speech over an empty grave.

Two weeks.

Thirteen days, seven hours, and twenty nine minutes.

That was how long Sherlock Homes had been back from the dead.

That was how long before it all happened that John had redefined his practical approach to the subject.

How long Sherlock had before he too, would understand.

Short version. Sometimes dead, was definitely, well, not dead.