Chapter 1: The Same Boring Routine

Author's note: Yes, cheesy title is cheesy and this story idea has been well overdone but I wanted to try my hand at it. As much as I enjoying reading some cute Johnlock fics, this one is not meant to be a slash fic, but more of a friendship fic. I'm sorry if that seems boring but it's what I want to write about. I credit WebMD for the information on cancerous moles. You'll understand if you read on.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. If I did, then I would be awesome friends with Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. Also, I am (unfortunately) an American who is attempting to use some British terminology. Don't be rude to me if I use them wrong, but feel free to correct me.

The sun shone brightly through the window of John Watson's bedroom, blinding the doctor momentarily. Groaning, he turned on his side, similar to a tired child who did not want to get up to go to school that day. Not for the first time that week, the sandy blonde man sympathized with school children and wished that he could stay in bed. After all, it seemed like there was no point in getting up. His days were painstakingly repetitive now; waking up just as the sun was coming up to go to work at the surgery, see patients and their families until he clocked out in the evenings, returning home to waste a few hours watching the telly before he went to bed to repeat the process the very next day. And the day after that. And the day after that one. This had become a routine he had familiarized himself with ever since that dreadful day. No matter what he did, whether it was through alcohol or busying himself with work, the image of his colleague, no his friend, hitting the ground was not going to disappear from his mind easily. Sherlock often spoke of his brain being a hard drive, and that he could 'delete' information that he deemed useless for his line of work. John was always slightly envious of the way Sherlock's brain worked, but now more than ever, he wished that he had that useful ability. What he would give to erase the last words Sherlock uttered on the phone, watching helplessly as he fell to the ground, the sickening amount of blood that surrounded his head on the pavement...

It was a well-known fact that John was a man who was used to seeing death, watching his fellow comrades die before him or in his arms when he would attempt to save them. It was quite gruesome, but eventually he taught himself to not let it affect him as much. At least, he was able to prevent their faces from haunting his dreams and was able to sleep again. The first night he was able to close his eyes with the threat of terrifying memories was the night he helped Sherlock catch a killer. Most people would have panicked or had a breakdown from killing someone, but John was used to it. You could not feel sorry every time you killed someone in a war, and, as Mycroft put it, with Sherlock he still saw the battlefield. Shooting the cabbie to ensure Sherlock's safety brought John back to Afghanistan, with hardly any hesitation or further thoughts on the matter. When asked about shooting the man, he simply responded that he was a bad cabbie, similar to the excuse he told himself when he was first stationed in order to relieve himself of guilt for killing someone. However, no matter how many deaths he had witnessed in his life, none were more surprising or stuck to his conscience more than Sherlock's. This was possibly due to that in the battlefield that the chances of someone coming out alive were slim. With Sherlock, it was different for John. He could have prevented it from happening somehow, perhaps even talking him out of it, but now it was too late. Sherlock Holmes was dead.

People who knew about their friendship wondered how John was able to get up every morning and continue with his work. If anyone had asked him, he would have replied that it was not as easy as it looked. Even with the increased amount of caffeine he forced into his system throughout the day, he would always come back to the flat with sunken tired eyes and a blank expression on his face, practically dragging his feet upstairs. He rarely spoke to anyone unless he was dealing with a patient or saying his usual "Morning" to Mrs. Hudson. Every now and then, he would receive a text from Lestrade asking him how things were at the hospital and if he wanted to grab a bite to eat some time to catch up. The doctor would give him short answers, hardly four words per text along with a polite decline on the dinner. While he appreciated the gesture, he was never in the mood to socialize with anyone, and hardly anything changed from working at a hospital. Same cases, different patients. That was all it ever was and it was absolutely boring.

Come on, mate. You've got to get up now. Come on, get up! The former soldier blinded reached for his phone on the nightstand, not bothering to open his eyes until the phone was near his face brightly showing him the time. 7:05. He 'slept in' five minutes more than he was used to in the mornings. Setting the phone back on the table, he pushed the covers back and set his feet on the ground, moving his neck around to loosen himself up. He stretched a bit before forcing himself up and making his way to the kitchen. Thankfully the coffee pot already had freshly brewed coffee made, making his morning a little bit easier. Not bothering to open the refrigerator for food, John walked to the nearest cabinet and took out a mug to fix his coffee in, adding a small amount of creamer (but never sugar) before pouring himself a cuppa. The mug was brought to his lips, blowing on it to cool it off before helping himself to his first sip of the day. Instantly, the bitter warm liquid filled his mouth and he swallowed the caffeinated drink before twitching his mouth a bit. He was slightly more alert than he was before, but it was going to take another cup to get him awake enough to walk to the hospital.

Another day. Just another boring day.

What was surprising to many people was John's decision to remain on 221B Baker Street. Many people who lived with someone that committed suicide would want to leave that place immediately if they were close and had the option. Several people had thought he missed Sherlock Holmes and that he slept in the detective's room every night, taking in the familiar smells of a rumored lover. However, they were only half-right. It was true that John missed the dark haired man. It was only fitting as he was a very important friend to him, even with his unconscious insults towards his intelligence. There seemed to be a hole in John, wishing that the detective would come back, but he never went into Sherlock's room. He dared not, subconsciously not wanting to upset Sherlock if he should ever return. Lord knows he would never hear the end of it if he so much as moved the covers on his bed. No, John left that room exactly the way it was the day Sherlock died and had not been in there since.

After the caffeine started settling in his system, John took a quick shower and dressed in the proper doctor attire before heading out the door. As he grabbed his coat, he tried not to stare at the empty hook near him, shaking his head to prevent any memories of his friend from flooding back before he even set foot in the doctor's office. He glanced at the cane that rested near the couch in the middle of the room, wondering if he should take it with him today. It had been over three years since he used yet he believed the limp was slowly returning. The psychosomatic limp. Imagine what Sherlock would think if he had been there pondering over using a cane for his imaginative limp. He would talk me out it, in his own way. Checking that he had his keys with him, the doctor locked the door behind him and quickly went down the stairs.

"I'm off, Mrs. Hudson. Have a good one!", he shouted over his shoulder, opening the door to the outside world. The cold air bit his cheeks as he turned up his collar to the wind and continued walking. He did not care for driving much and he did not own a car, but he never minded this. The office was only a ten minute walk from the flat, no need to waste money on a taxi. Besides, walking through the chilling weather of London was one of the best ways to wake up. It always worked as John rounded the corner and continued down the straight line to his work. Even before Sherlock died, John was used to walking by himself. Sherlock rarely left the flat for anything that did not involve a case and the shorter man was not going to ask him to walk with him to his work. The walk was relaxing even in harsh weather. It gave him time to think, to reflect on old memories, and most importantly mentally prepare himself for seeing patients. The sandy blonde doctor was always an expert at masking his emotions from anyone, with the exception of Sherlock, but even then he could delay the man a few seconds which was more than what anyone could say. With his patients, it was more difficult to not reveal his emotions. This was why he chose to keep a blank look on his face at all time, with only his eyes giving away his true emotions. However, the former soldier was a determined man, and seemed to be decent at keeping his work and personal life separate.

A door was opened leading into the general practice and immediately John scrunched up his nose. No matter how many times he had entered this office, he could never quite get over the scent of overused cleaning products. Of course, this was to be expected in a doctor's office with sick patients coming in every hour, but one's nose could start bleeding if they spent too much time in the waiting room. Luckily for the locum doctor, he was only passing through the waiting room, never spending a long amount of time in there to begin with. Taking off his scarf, John managed a fake smile as he greeted the new receptionist (Kathy, was it?), a girl who looked more like a teenager if it had not been for the scrubs she was wearing. John walked straight to the back to hang up his coat and scarf, grabbing a white doctor's coat. Making sure he had his stethoscope around his neck, he was approached by one of the nurses telling him what room he was needed in. Stopping outside of the room, he skimmed over the file of his patient. Abigail Martin. 25. Came in complaining about sore throat. Tests needed to check for strep. John sighed, putting on his mask, before making his way into the room to begin his day.

"Well, I cannot tell you right now if that mole is cancerous or not, Mrs. Brunner", John explained to the older woman, walking over to where her file was. The woman must have been in her early to mid-forties at first glance and had short brown curly hair that covered her neck enough to hide the mole in question. He clicked his pen and began writing in her file, partially glad that she was his last patient of the day. The day dragged on with parents bringing screaming children with earaches to the 'regulars' with a normal check-up that seemed to play twenty questions with the doctor. Something he never got about people were their constant What ifs, as if they were questioning his qualifications. Damn the internet sometimes, he found himself thinking, trying to remain calm enough to answer their questions. This woman seemed like she wanted to ask him question after question about her simple condition.

"Then how will I know, doctor?", the woman asked, with slight fear in her eyes but a tight lipped straight line on her face. Her arms were crossed and her eyebrow raised, as if she were scolding a child.

John let out a quiet sigh, but kept his composure, "Only a dermatologist can tell you for sure. I can give you the number for one that's a couple streets over." Good thinking, John. Perhaps you giving her a reference will make her realize that I tried all I could to help her. In the comments section of her file, he wrote down the name of the dermatologist so that the receptionist will know what number to look up for the anxious woman.

"But how will they know?", the woman pushed on, her patience obviously wearing thin. "What are they going to do that's any different from what you've already done?"

Another sigh let his lips and John closed her file. He faced her again, trying not to let the tiredness show in his voice. "The dermatologist will examine it like I have, but they are better at recognizing anything cancerous. If it's necessary, they will perform a skin biopsy on it to make sure, but I don't think you should worry too much. Most moles are benign, more scary-looking than anything."

"Right, but why should I go see a dermatologist if it's not cancer?"

"Just to be sure. If it is, in fact, cancer, the doctor will be able to give you more options on what to do and hopefully catch it before it gets worse. If it's not, you should still see a dermatologist to make sure that you have no cancerous moles."

This answer did not seem to sit well with the woman as she stood up straight from her chair, remaining tight lipped with her chin up slightly. "So basically, I should just waste my money on someone tell me that it's not cancer and keep visits with them? Sounds like a scam to me. Do all you so-called doctors work together to try to get more money out of innocent people like myself? And you call yourself a professional." It took all of John's strength to not yell at the woman for being ungrateful and throw her file on the ground to stomp on it. Instead, he gritted his teeth and followed the woman out the room to the receptionist. He all but threw the file down in front of the poor girl before walking away. There was only so much he could take, and he could not take it much longer. As he walked down the hall, he torn off his white coat and hung it up quickly. If he timed it right, he would leave after the annoying woman was completely gone. There was never a fear that a patient could come over him, but he did not want to take that chance today. He waited in the back for several minutes before finally putting on a scarf and zipping up his coat. He waved politely at the young receptionist and let the cold wind sting his cheeks once he got outside.

Not even two steps away from the entrance of the general practice, a familiar ring went off, alerting him that he had received a text. Moving to the side, he took out his phone to check the message.

Hey mate, haven't seen you in a while. Meet me at 20:00 at Angelo's. And don't give me some pathetic excuse on why you can't be here.

It was Greg, better known as Detective Inspector Lestrade, with his weekly text to John. For some reason, the former soldier smirked at the message, mostly at the wording. It almost sounded urgent to the man, but what could it be? Lestrade's career miraculously recovered when he managed to catch a serial killer who killed three children walking home, receiving a shot to the arm. He was proclaimed a hero, and proved himself again to the New Scotland Yard. It was not like he was going to need John's help on something; that was always Sherlock's area of expertise. Still, the man found himself shrugging and typed a quick reply to his old friend. Angelo's was only a twenty minute walk from the general practice. He could get there just in time if he went straight there. Pulling his collar up to the wind, he started down the street to the familiar Angelo's restaurant. Who knows? It might do him some good to see an old friend.