He knew that he was watching him but as always he simply ignored it or (more likely) didn't care. Why should The Great Sherlock Holmes care anyway if he was being observed? He shouldn't, and that was that. Why should he care about anything? Why did he even come back?
John couldn't help but feel resentment towards the man he had at one point called his best friend, and as he leaned in the doorway, watching Holmes' silhouetted shoulders twitch slightly as he typed away into his laptop, the bright screen illuminating the edges of his clothing and dark hair like a halo. He couldn't stop his lip curling into a slight snarl as he thought that. Just because Holmes had seemingly been resurrected did not make him an angel.
Not for one minute.
John turned from where he was standing and strode down the stairs and out of the door without a word, not that Holmes would notice his absence. That thought only made his chest tighten more, though whether that was with anger or hurt he still wasn't sure. Things had been complicated since the other man had come back- no, they had been worse than complicated, they had been bloody awful.
Three years. Three years of mourning the death of the man, of fighting the scandal and hatred that was being built against his name. John hadn't been able to cope in the first few months, his only comfort was the feeble hope that there could still be one last miracle and alcohol. Lots of alcohol. He was a soldier, he had encountered loss, he had had men die in front of him, but it was nothing compared to the emptiness and horror that had followed The Fall. It was like being shot all over again, with sleepless nights and waking up screaming.
But then a year had gone by and the pain had lessened, he found he could look people in the eyes again and not just see pity, but friendliness. He started going to the pub with Greg occasionally, an occasionally that turned into a regular weekly routine. He cleared all of Holmes documents and instruments and put them into what had been his bedroom on the idea that he would clear the whole thing out eventually, but deciding that small steps were the best. Hell, he'd even managed a few dates towards the end. But meeting with Mycroft had set the process back months. Mycroft had tried to suggest John moving location, something about protection from a new threat, a suspected colleague of Moriarty, some army buff or..something... John couldn't remember the details as not long after Mycroft had used Holmes first name and John had shot holes in the Diogenes Club walls.
And then after the recovery, after building a new life, not a perfect one, but a bearable one, he had come back. Holmes had come back from the bloody dead and ruined everything all over again. John's first reaction had been horror. Had his depression really driven him to start hallucinating? Euphoria followed, his best friend, back at last, the one last miracle.
And then came the resentment.
With Holmes came all the hatred and bitterness that had building in John over the past three years. Why had he put him through this? Fake his own death? Let his name fall to ruin? Why had he left John when he was so alone and he knew that if he left John would have nothing.
Holmes never talked of what had happened. He simply replied with
"I had no choice, you must trust me."
to every question John either pleaded or screamed at him. The deceit, the lies, the pain. He didn't care. What was worst, and John hated himself for being so petty about it, was that Holmes hadn't even apologised. Now, four weeks after the miraculous resurrection of The Great Detective, John stalked the streets of London as the streetlights flickered on to combat the deepening dark, and he knew exactly what he needed. Alcohol, and lots of it.