It's been 18 years since John went off to the army and Sherlock to University.
And now they're meeting again.
Sorry for any mistakes.

I had been trying to write to make it to 40 chapters, but nothing was coming to me. This final chapter, however, pretty much wrote itself and I think that it's a sign that this story has run its course. I think forcing anymore chapters out would ruin it.

John Watson.

The words of Mike Stamford's introduction bounced around inside the genius' head. It was a name that he hadn't expected to come across again. It was a name that elicited a strange sensation of happiness and comfort inside the consulting detective.

John Watson.

The closer Sherlock looked, the more he saw. In his late 30s now and with a medical degree obtained in this very hospital, he was no longer John Watson. He was now; Doctor John Watson.

In fact, he was Army Doctor John Watson. Just as he had always intended to be. An army medic. So it seemed that they both got what they wanted out of life. Sherlock was a detective. John was an army medic. Was an army medic. Now an injured army medic invalided home from – where? Afghanistan or Iraq?

There was no denying that this was his old best friend. Of course, Sherlock could argue that there was a very high chance that this was another man named John Watson but Sherlock knew what his family's views were on coincidences. The universe was rarely so lazy. What was the likelihood of a Doctor John Watson in London knowing Mike Stamford? A Doctor John Watson who had just come back from service in Afghanistan?

And a Doctor John Watson who didn't seem to recognise Sherlock one bit.

Generous John Watson, there was no arguing with himself now. No trying to convince himself otherwise. This was his old best friend – who else would allow a stranger to use their phone on their first meeting?

And Sherlock knew, of course he did, that he shouldn't feel quite so disappointed that John didn't recognise him. After all, he was now 34 years old and the last time he had been in contact with the man was just before he'd gone to begin his army training at 18. Sherlock had only been 16 at the time.

Sherlock had been caught up in trying to avoid bullies and to get through his studies; John had been stuck into his training as a soldier and communication between them had been getting less and less. And no-one was to blame. Not really. Sherlock could have got his brother to find John's contact details very easily, but he'd made a number of mistakes whilst John had been away and he knew that John wouldn't be pleased with him if he knew.

Besides, unlike Sherlock, John was capable of making friends. In fact, he was very good at it. He didn't need to cling on to the hope that one day he might meet up with his best friend from his school years.

Sherlock had never actually expected it to happen. He hated to hope. It always led to disappointment.

But now he had a chance. John might not recognise him but it would have been pointless of Mike to have brought him here had he not believed that there was a chance of a friendship between them. And what better way to try and spark John's memory of him than by dropping hints about who he was?

The Violin. During his teenage years, Sherlock loved playing his violin. A love born out of his father's notion that every teenager needed to have some kind of musical hobby because, apparently, it had been proven that people who played an instrument in their childhood turned out to be better students. Sherlock had chosen the violin because his brother had decided that piano was for him and like his brother Sherlock most definitely was not. But apparently, this didn't seem to resonate with John.

Chemistry. John had walked in on him in the midst of an experiment but it didn't seem to have sparked any memories despite the fact that Sherlock was very passionate about chemistry in their youth and John had been there for a significant part of it.

Talking. John knew better than anyone that Sherlock had times when he would be so caught up in the throes of depression that he just couldn't seem to find the energy to socialise. And John had always been there when Sherlock had needed him. Surely, this would have triggered some kind of memory. Had John just completely deleted him out of his life when he joined the army?

Even Molly Hooper, who they both went to school with and had always been infatuated with the detective, hadn't seemed to remind him of anything.

"How did you know about Afghanistan?"

Was John's memory of Sherlock really so terrible that he couldn't remember their discussions about the future? They had spent many an hour sat talking about what they intended to do when they left school and what they wanted from their future. Did he not remember telling Sherlock about his dream of becoming an army doctor?

Well, if he couldn't remember it then there didn't seem to be much point in Sherlock trying to remind him, did there?

Now all that was left to do was to tell him about the flat.

"We only just met…" Well that wasn't hurtful at all, was it? It's not like they'd spent the majority of their secondary school life together or anything.

"We don't know a thing about each other … I don't even know your name." Ouch. If that didn't prove to Sherlock that John didn't remember who he was, nothing would.

Well, if he really didn't recall who he was, then there was no harm in telling him was there?

"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street."

That ought to do it. Now to see whether or not he turned up.

So there we have it. The final chapter of Teenlock.
Thank you all for reading and for the reviews. Thank you also for the follows and favourites.
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