It was a day like any other.
John felt Sherlock's absence keenly. He woke the same way every day — with the expectation of finding his flatmate doing something distasteful and the subsequent sharp, gut-wrenching ache when he remembered that it'd never be that way again. Each day felt like a dream and John spent it in a dissociated haze of mixed apathy and lethargy. Mycroft, on one of the rare days in the beginning when he'd stopped by, had insisted that he needed to accept reality, but John was quick to toss him and be done with it.
Every morning John hobbled his way downstairs, leaning heavily on his cane, and set about living life as best as he was capable. He went to the surgery, picked up groceries (always too much, always anticipating a second mouth that wasn't there to eat), and sat at his laptop. John's fingers hovered over the keys, twitching with the desire to write, but ultimately frustrated when nothing came. Eventually, he rubbed his eyes and pushed away from the desk before going to bed.
In his dreams, it was like nothing had changed. Every night, while he slept, John went on adventures with Sherlock. More often than not, it was discombobulated and made little sense — just a blurry rehash of memories and what could have been. This was the best part of his day. Loathe as he was to admit it, John lived each ceaseless day for the opportunity to reunite at night.
Time became irrelevant as it passed, the days ever changing and consistently bleak. John kept track only as much as was dictated by his work schedule. Mrs. Hudson came by with food occasionally, tutting at him as she helped around the flat with some light cleaning. She worried, John knew, but it was hard to care when he felt detached from his body, tethered by only a small anchor that kept him from floating away entirely.
And on the days where it was too quiet, too little and too much at the same time, John tried to fill the void with meaningless garbage, anything to distract himself from the perpetual realities of day to day life. He even resorted to attempting to watch the telly, but everything from the trashiest of reality shows to renowned documentaries reminded him of Sherlock. From time to time, John would look around at the disrepair of the flat and attempt to right the wrong, but he never managed to catch up. Every item contained a trigger, a ghost of the past and an unwelcome reminder of what he'd lost. It was on those nights that he dreamed of war and death; he'd wake in a cold sweat, the smell of gunpowder in his nose, and his gaze lingering on the rifle inside his bedside drawer.
It was a day like any other and John was tired.
Leaning heavily against the wall, John tucked his cane under his armpit as he favored his "injured" leg. He shuffled his groceries to his non-dominant arm and unlocked the door to his flat, nudging it open with a foot. Sighing, John limped inside and used his hip to shut it behind him. He glanced up and stilled, his eyes narrowing as he took in the newly re-arranged items about the living room. Sherlock's favorite skull was missing.
It was decidedly... odd and very nearly alarming. Mrs. Hudson tended to only come by when he was home — an excuse to check on him, John was sure. When she cleaned up after him (ordinarily, he'd have been somewhat ashamed of this, but lately there was only a void and a twinge of regret), she dusted and threw trash in the bin, but she never moved anything that had belonged to him. A sliver of unease slid through John as rummaging came from the next room over. He unconsciously dropped into a defensive stance as his eyes swept across the room.
With a bag of groceries in one arm and his cane held aloft as a weapon in the other, John crept towards the kitchen with only a hint of a limp. He wasn't prepared to be greeted with the sight of Sherlock hunched over his chemistry tubes and a bunsen burner at the table, but nonetheless, it was what he was met with. John froze, his breath stilling in his lungs and his eyes widening impossibly as they ran over the other man. He looked much as he always had, though perhaps a little more slight in form.
John's mind scrambled to understand what he was seeing. How was this possible? Sherlock was dead, he'd witnessed his death himself. He'd confirmed it. How could he possibly be sitting in their kitchen, alive? Was he sleeping, hallucinating, or had he finally gone 'round the bend?
"I said," Sherlock demanded suddenly, casting an irritated look over his shoulder. John stiffened. "Do hand me your phone. I've a call to make."
"No, I... what is this?" John demanded, anger rising just as steadily as his grief. His hand clenched around the cane and he had to resist the urge to whip it at the other man's head. "Sherlock...?" John said as he carefully hooked the curve of his cane around a drawer knob. As John turned away from Sherlock, he took a deep breath and sat the groceries on the counter. One. Two. Three. Exhale. Repeat.
"Obviously," Sherlock said heedlessly, his tone ratcheting up as though John were being particularly daft on purpose. "I've returned, now could you please hand me your phone? Lestroud is expecting a call." He said the word "please" with disdain, his lips turned down at the corners with disapproval.
John shook his head, his mouth dry. He licked his lips, but he said nothing at first. It was as though he were in a trance. His face was bearded and unkempt, his hair was longer than it should have been and his eyes were decorated with bruises. Sherlock didn't seem to notice, but John knew that was untrue. He shook his head as if to clear it but got stuck in a loop.
"Lestrade," John corrected absently, his voice little more than a whisper and his throat working convulsively to swallow down his outrage. "Now, Sherlock," he said dangerously, trying to steady his breathing. "I'm only going to ask you this once: where have you been and why—" he slapped both hands on the table explosively, jarring Sherlock's experiment. It began to hiss. "—was I never informed you were very much alive?"