It is Tuesday, 8 o'clock in the morning. Turn over, switch off the alarm, get up. Shower, dress, head downstairs. Don't look at the violin that sits mockingly in the corner. Refuse to establish eye contact with any skulls that are sitting on the mantle. Definitely don't let fingers linger on the rough texture of a thick Belstaff coat that has no business hanging on the coat rack. How did it get here? Wasn't Sherlock wearing – stop this. Deep breath. Go to work.
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John Watson wasn't tired. He was bloody exhausted. He had been kept late at work for the 4th night in a row and the 12-plus hour days were taking their toll on the doctor. His shoulders slouched and his eyes drooped. The ride home on the underground did little to improve his condition. He had given up cabs in all except the most necessary of circumstances since… Well, just since.
Using the underground had the added benefit of saving John some money. It was cheaper to get a weekly pass than pay for 5 days of cab fare. Of course, it was an extra four blocks to walk each day, but he didn't mind the exercise. Usually.
The day had been one of those upsettingly bright dreary days. The overcast sky was brightly lit, making it difficult to look upwards. It had reminded him of another time, almost in another life, that the sky was so strangely lit. He stopped himself before his thoughts traveled much further down this avenue. Wasn't any use to be thinking those sorts of thoughts.
After exchanging hellos with Mrs. Hudson, John trekked up the stairs to 221B. As was his routine, he put the kettle on to boil, then headed upstairs to wash up. He most certainly did not pause on the landing or spare a glance at the additional bedroom in the flat.
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Feeling slightly fresher, John gracelessly settled himself into the plush chair by the fireplace. His tea was just this side of piping, exactly how he liked it. He sipped carefully as he flipped through the telly. His steady rhythm of channel changing stuttered briefly as a police drama flashed across the screen, but if anyone noted this as anything more than pure coincidence, John would surely refute it.
It wasn't long before he settled on a late hour news report. He half listened to the day's events while steadfastly ignoring the other empty chair in the room. The hour was late and it took more effort than it usually did. He frowned.
Eventually, he headed up the stairs for the final time that day. After turning out all the lights, checking that the doors were locked (the flat and the building – Mrs. Hudson seemed to be forgetting to lock the door behind her as of late), he was finally settling in his bed. He lay down and gratefully slipped under the covers.
His breath slowly evened out as sleep claimed him. And just before he slipped under, his last thoughts were certainly not of an errant consulting detective. Definitely not…
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It was Wednesday, 8 o'clock in the morning. Turn over, switch off the alarm, get up.