It's been a full month since
John deletes the six words in the text box. If he goes any further on that tack, he might throw up or forget how to breathe or have any number of reactions resulting from the near-violent surge in his chest and stomach.
I went back to 221B yesterday. It was exactly the same as when I'd left it
Except it wasn't, not really. All of John's things were untouched, but the body parts in the fridge, the skull on the mantle, the test tubes and vials and odd paraphernalia, those had all been thrown away or stored somewhere out of sight. Presumably Mrs. Hudson, thinking she was doing John a favor, cleared out Sherlock's things. He knows how their particular brand of chaos used to alarm her, and it is her house, after all, so why shouldn't she clean up? Still, the place had felt wrong, too empty, as though Sherlock had been erased from it. As though he was never there. John deletes.
I went back yesterday. To the flat, I mean. Mrs. Hudson has been kind enough to let me keep my things there while I stayed with friends
Who cares? Do any of his readers really care that he's been sleeping on couches—on Mike's, on Lestrade's, on Molly's, even those belonging to one or two of his exes when he was in dire straits—for the past month because he hasn't been able to go home? And 221B is home, was, anyway, before it became too big and too quiet. Do any of his readers care about his living situation? Why should they, now that it's just him and his goings-on, plain and steady as shortbread biscuits. Why should they care, when he doesn't?
Went back to the flat yesterday. Cleared out my things. Left again.
Too terse. Unsatisfactory. Serviceable, though. And he'd rather just get this over. Ella has encouraged him to keep on with the blog: "Your life shouldn't end with his." He doesn't say what he's thinking. "It's not my life, it's just a stupid blog. It wasn't even my idea." "Not like anything worth writing about is going on." "Why the hell not?" He just nods at the carpet and grips the handle of his cane more tightly. He's started walking with it again, found he needed it suddenly, what with the old pain radiating out from that spot, just a few inches above his knee.
John adds to his sole line of text.
I've been picking up hours at the clinic again.
And things are unspeakably awkward with Sarah.
Should go out and start looking for another flat soon.
And another flatmate. It's the practical thing to do; he still can't live on his own with his pension, even with his pay from the clinic as supplemental income. This is how it works. This is survival, an area in which John Watson is more than proficient. And if on occasion he feels as though his insides have been replaced with lead, this is just (sentiment) something to endure. People do this every day. And John swallows memories with the pain pills for his leg and does his best not to think of that night at the pool and, "That's what people DO," and the weight of explosives and Sherlock running toward him.
John's eyes burn; he squeezes them shut, blinks a few times, and is fine again (close enough). He looks at what he's written, which only takes him a few seconds. What else is there to say? Not much else worth saying, is there? Not much else that matters. Almost of their own accord, his hands begin to type.
I miss
and his eyes are burning all over again, clouding over, can't see, so he just closes his laptop, gathers his things, and slips out of the library and into London's chill. Probably won't go back to it, he thinks, and after a moment he realizes he's not sure what he means.