It was the first time John had been out the flat in a week.
Well, attempted it.
When he opened the front door, a sleeping homeless person fell back against John's legs. The man gasped, waking up suddenly, looking up at John and struggling to pull himself to his feet, backing away, arms raised in front of him protectively.
Now he was standing, John could take a good look at him. The man was tall. His hair was black, but it was so filled with dirt, dust and general London muck that it could have actually been blonde or a near luminous shade of red and he wouldn't have been able to tell.
Every inch of visible skin was covered in a layer of grime. That's living in London for you John thought.
He wore a torn dark coat, stitched in places, ripped in others, fraying and stained. The buttons that perhaps once held it close around his body were gone, in their place a raggedy piece of string that may have once held together a large piece of pork or beef in some dodgy Brixton butchers.
The man was shaking, though John couldn't tell whether it was in fear, pain or cold. He ran his trained eyes up and down the man before him. He was limping. Pain, then.
John sighed.
He needed Sherlock.
Sherlock would be able to tell him exactly who this man was, why he was here and what medical treatment he needed in seconds.
But, of course, Sherlock wasn't here. He never would be here. And John had become bitter. Before, he would have felt compelled to help this man, to take him in, care for him….
"Piss off." John snapped, slamming the door behind him before locking it and stuffing his keys and his wallet in his pocket. He started down the street, before pausing and turning to face the man, who was looking about, lost. "If you're here when I get back, I'm calling the police." He said, holding up his mobile phone so he could see it. The man stared at him for a while, then carried on looking about, before limping slowly away. Satisfied, John turned and walked away.