AN: So when I count the words for this story by hand, I come up with 221. The site's word counter says 229. Now I'm adding this AN and bumping the count up even higher. I know how to count, dear readers, and I understand how a 221b prompt works, I swear! In any case, I just felt like giving you all a tiny little present on my own birthday. *wink* I hope you like it, because you're not getting a gift receipt!
He went through the motions that day. Work, dinner and cake with Mrs. Hudson, pub with Lestrade, then back home again to the empty flat. Everything was empty. He was doing what he was supposed to be doing. He smiled when he was supposed to smile and allowed himself to break down only in the lonely darkness at night. His therapist told him this wasn't healthy. He told her she couldn't even cure a psychosomatic limp. Then he fired her.
His whole life felt as though he were on the precipice of something great, but then Sherlock had fallen, and now John was left teetering on the edge and fearing the darkness. He switched on the telly and sat back against the cushions. This was the life he was supposed to lead. It was all fine. A tap at the door, and he groaned. Surely Mrs. Hudson was in bed for the night, or at least occupied with her herbal soothers. He struggled to his feet, hand grasping for his cane.
The man outside was thinner, and a long scar marred his left cheek, but he was also unmistakably, undeniably familiar. He looked ashamed. John felt his whole being surge. He was finally vindicated. Still, he remained silent.
"John." The voice was rough. It held pain, but also salvation. "Happy birthday."