Just a note: This is post-Reichenbach, and John still thinks that Sherlock is dead.
John stood in line, a basket dangling off his left arm. Inside, a jar of jam and a gallon of milk.
He sighed heavily and glanced at the line in front of him. Two more people. He sighed again and, shifting his weight momentarily, adjusted his cane on the store's cheap carpet. Ahead of him, the lady in line swiped her card at the machine and grabbed her bags.
The man directly in front of John stepped forward, dragging his feet and stumbling, with all the appearance of a drunk man. He practically fell upon the checkout, and raising his hand pointed vaguely behind the cashier. He muttered a few drunken words.
"4 packs... Nico-... -atches..."
The lady behind the counter rolled her eyes. She reached behind her and pulled down 4 packs of the cheapest brand.
"No, no." The man muttered. "More... Expensive."
She rolled her eyes again. "Sure, mister. Here you go."
She gave the total and he paid in a wadded ball of cash, stumbling off before she could even give him his change.
John approached the counter, struggling to keep his eyes off the cigarettes and nicotine patches on the rack. He barely glanced at the cashier as he set his items on the table.
"Ha. Betcha that man won't last very long off his cigarettes", she muttered to John. "Stupid drunk. Don't even know 'ow he managed to find his way in here. Must have been really desperate."
John bit his tongue. Ever since Sherlock's... incident, he had struggled to keep a clean mouth. Sherlock had never appreciated his use of colourful language, and it hurt John to do anything now that would disappoint him, dead (no, he was missing) or not.
"I suppose. Thank you." He took his bags from the counter with a considerable amount of force and limped out the door.
Walking down the street he struggled to keep his eyes downcast, hot tears stinging the corners of his eyes. He didn't know what it was about today, but something was making the absence of his excessively observant companion even more horrible.
Finally reaching Baker Street, he mounted the steps to 221B and unlocked the door. On the way upstairs he passed Mrs. Hudson going down.
"Oh, afternoon dear." She smiled sweetly at him. "I've placed your letters on the table. Quite a lot today." She patted his arm and continued downstairs.
John frowned. More complaints, probably. And condolences. Those were the worst. Even two years later there was always someone to pour salt in the wound.
At last he limped up the top step and opened the door. On the coatrack still hung Sherlock's favourite dressing gown and an extra scarf. Everything was exactly as it had been two years earlier, save for the accumulation of dust on the skull Sherlock had always kept on the mantle. John hadn't even bothered to wipe Sherlock's footprints off the table, and the black scuffs still remained, buried under the newspapers dating back to three weeks ago.
John walked wearily into the room, aching when no comment arose about his "being late" or "forgetting the milk". Nothing even about fetching the phone from Sherlock's pocket.
John limped to the fridge, his right leg now nothing more than a stiff limb, hanging from what he considered a dead tree. Nothing happened to him anymore.
Opening the fridge, he shoved the milk in with a sudden frightening force, rocking the small fridge back and forth. There hadn't been anonymous body parts in 221B for over two years.
John needed to do something. The long, quiet nights were too much. He no longer heard the gentle clinking of vials from Sherlock's "laboratory", no longer heard the jabbering voices of the news reporters on the telly late into the night.
Lestrade hadn't called in weeks, except to inform John that Molly's birthday was coming up in some weeks. November 23, he had said. He had told John quite simply that he should come.
"Watson, Molly's birthday is coming up. We'll be having a celebration, I should think. On the 23 of this November. I should like to see you there. It's been a long time."
When John had made no comment, Greg had sighed.
"You know John, Sherlock had always spoken highly of his 'great companion' to us. I don't think he should like you to fall into despair because of what he did. We all believe in him." And with that, the conversation had ended.
Yes, thought John. You all believe in him. Except maybe Anderson. Stupid Anderson. John recalled the last time he had encountered Anderson. He had met him on the street outside of Angelo's restaurant. John had blatantly punched him in the face. Hard. And walked away.
Out of the corner of his eye though, he was sure he had seen Angelo in the doorway. He had smiled and saluted John. Now John sat on the sofa. A crumpled man. Defeated. And by his own friend, whether intentionally or not. But he still believed.
IF YOU'VE JUST READ MY FIRST CHAPTER, PLEASE, LEAVE A REVIEW IF YOU LIKED OR DISLIKED IT! I'M HAVING TROUBLE TELLING HOW FAST THE STORY IS MOVING AND WHETHER OR NOT IT'S BORING READERS. CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM IS EXTREMELY HELPFUL AND DOES NOT OFFEND ME, IT TELLS ME WHAT I'M DOING RIGHT AND WRONG! THANKS A TON TO THOSE WHO DO LEAVE REVIEWS, IT ONLY TAKES A MINUTE AND IT HELPS MAKE THE STORY BETTER! I ALWAYS CREDIT IDEAS IF I USE THEM AND REPLY TO ANY QUESTIONS AND MESSAGES I RECIEVE.