Standard disclaimer - I do not own any of the characters (nor the cover image)

An Absence of Light

- After TRF -

November

John sat in the empty 221B flat, staring out the window. The clock on his phone read 08:07, and he knew he was already late to work. He had done everything right today, gotten up with the alarm (improvement), showered quickly (improvement), left his gun at home (they would call it an improvement, but as the tension filled John's chest when he closed the drawer holding his trusted Browning, he wasn't so sure), but as he was about to leave at a reasonable time, he made the mistake of looking at his red chair, across from his black one.

It was a rainy, muggy day in London and the sky was a dull concrete gray, not that John noticed. He was staring into space, lost not in memories, but in sentiment. A dreary mixture of longing and grief. 08:24. He sat against the sofa, leaning back on it, left knee up and right leg comfortably extended underneath the table in front of it. His shoulder hurt; always did in this weather. It matched the dull pain gripping his chest.

A knock on the door broke the heavy silence surrounding John.

"John?" Lestrade's voice called.

"Hm? Yes, coming." John used his hands against the sofa to push himself off the floor, and walked the few steps to the door. On his second step, his right knee buckled and John tripped forward, landing ungracefully against the door. "Shit," he whispered under his breath. No. I don't believe it. I refuse to believe it. He should be able to psych himself out of a psychosomatic limp, right? Pushing himself off the door, he tested his leg, hoping that it held up. And for a second it did… until he crashed once again, landing painfully on his bad shoulder.

Hissing in pain, he carefully turning around while avoiding putting weight on his leg, and opened the door to a worried-looking Greg.

"I brought you some biscuits…"

"Thanks." John took the box and limped aside so Lestrade could walk in. He shut the door behind Greg, and stood awkwardly against the bookshelf as the other man prepared to talk.

"Listen, mate. I know, we know, that Sherlock's, uh, passing, has been rough." At the mention of his name, John stiffened. "It has been on everybody, and especially you. But this… this thing that has been going on? With the not-showing-up-for-work and the breakfast-at-6pm if you remember, it's got to end."

John avoided Greg's eyes because everything he said was true. But John couldn't just up and leave 221B. Despite the overwhelming layer of sadness waiting for him at every corner of this place, it is… it was, his home. Home is where your heart is, so even if John's heart left him by jumping off a bloody morgue, this was his heart's last known location. This was his last home. So he stayed, because that's what good people do. They stay with their family, their heart. Or at least they should, and by that logic neither of John's parents were good, but that was okay. John was okay. John was always okay. Nobody ever asked, so by default John had to be okay. That was fine.

John couldn't tell Greg why he couldn't leave; the words wouldn't come out. So he waited until Greg said his piece, gave up on convincing him to move in with him, and left. The entire time, John didn't move from his post against the bookcase, and Lestrade never asked why. It's unlikely he figured out, much less that he deduced, that John's limp was back, more likely that he thought of John's awkwardness as a new character trait brought on by his recent loss. And John was okay with that. He was fine with nobody really caring. Sure, they checked in, did their moral obligations as former co-workers, but that didn't mean anything. Not really.

John was fine.