A/N: Here we go. I hope you enjoy it! Reviews are read and loved. :)
(For anyone wondering about my old story, sorry, I haven't forgotten it, I just haven't worked on it in a while, I will get back to it at some point)
John Watson was sitting in the old armchair at 221B Baker Street, staring blankly at the floor. It's just like, he thought, being back in Afghanistan, except that I didn't leave after the trauma. He couldn't leave. And there was no one to force him to go, like there had been in the war.
A knock startled him from his thoughts. He straightened up to see Mrs. Hudson in the doorway. "Hello." he said dully, trying to summon up a smile. Mrs. Hudson came bustling toward him as if his unenthusiastic greeting was her cue. "Oh, my love," she said with concern, "You're making me worry, all this sitting and staring at nothing." John cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Sorry." he said shortly.
Mrs. Hudson clucked her tongue. "You should get out occasionally, you know." she said reprovingly. She hesitated, then added, "this isn't going to bring Sherlock back." She sucked in a breath at the end, as if surprised at her own audacity, and John felt suddenly unable to breathe himself for a moment.
When he had regained control, he nodded. "I- er- I was going to go down to the café this morning anyway." he lied. Mrs. Hudson smiled. "That's right, dear," she replied more cheerfully, "do you a good turn." She headed back toward the stairway after a moment. "Well, I'll just be downstairs," she reminded John, "give a shout if you need anything."
Having told Mrs. Hudson that he was going, John felt obliged to follow through. After a few minutes, he got up, picked up the walking stick that leaned on the arm of the chair, and went to get his wallet and coat.
There was a new guy behind the counter at the little café downstairs. He was rather odd looking: young, with a mop of straight, dark brown hair and square glasses settled on his noes, from behind which he was fiddling intently with some sort of small gadget. John cleared his throat. "Erm- hello." he said to get the man's attention. The man behind the counter looked up, saw John, then pulled his glasses off and sprang to attention- rather, John thought, over-enthusiastically.
"Hello!" he said brightly. "Sorry. What can I get for you?" He looked almost embarrassingly pleased. John shifted his weight. "A coffee, please. And- one of those." He jabbed a finger at something in the glass display case that looked vaguely interesting.
The man took a pair of tongs from a nail and slipped John's pastry onto a small ceramic plate, then filled a mug with steaming coffee from the silver machine in the corner. He brought the mug over to John, placing it before him with a flourish. "There you are. That'll be five pounds seventy, please." John paid, and took his breakfast to an empty table at the back.
John ate hurriedly, eager to be back to the flat, back out of the observing eye of the public. He carried his dishes to the counter when he was finished, then limped out. As he crossed through the doorway, the enthusiastic barista noticed him. "Goodbye!" he called after John. "Have a wonderful day!" John nodded in surly acknowledgement and continued on his way.
John was panting by the time he reached the top of the stairs. He knew, logically, that the pain in his leg was really only psychological, but that didn't make it hurt any less. He went through the door into the still-cluttered living room and froze.
The large armchair was facing away from him, and over the back of it, John could see the top of a head of black curls. A squeezing feeling came round his middle.
No. It couldn't be. But who else could it possibly be?