John filled his cup with tea. He put the cup on the table just the time he needed to pick up the cane. Really life was easier without a limp and shaking hands. John took the cup, paying attention not to let the tea drop out, and walked slowly to the living room. He sat on the couch and turned on the TV. Crap telly everywhere, not that he really had any interest in what he was watching. He drank his tea without hurry. His gaze crossed absently all the room, avoiding the violin, the skull, the chemistry books that he never understood. At the beginning -or better in the first days of the end - looking them would have made him feel safe, calm, like He was only out taking a walk or closed in his room thinking, and He would step in just a matter of time. Now his belongings only made John remember the better period of his life. And it ached like someone had thrusted an awl deep in his chest and now he was turning it deeper and deeper.
John's phone rang. He didn't respond. Probably was just Harry wondering if he was ok. She called him a lot recently. He didn't always answered. She wanted to know if he was fine. He always said yes. He never said the truth. Because the truth was, he didn't feel fine for a year, one month, twenty-seven days, eight hours and eleven minutes. Life is ironic, isn't it? John used to have a very bad awareness of time. He could think he stayed on his blog for fifteen minutes, and then He would advert him that he already passed an hour and a half like that. Now He wasn't there - He wasn't anywhere to be said exactly - and John was aware of every minute of his so called life.
After exactly two hours forty-two minutes he passed sitting there watching crap telly without really watching it, John decided maybe he could stand up and make dinner. He wasn't hungry at all, but he needed to eat to keep himself healty and don't have Mycroft or anyone else around him worrying for his conditions. And anyway, cooking and eating was a way to let some time pass.
Just in that moment he felt something cold on his neck. He turned around. There were nothing behind him. But for a moment he'd swear he felt something. Cold air, that sent chills down his spine. A sort of nervousism took him. He didn't know why. He just felt nervous. Afraid. He didn't felt afraid since the Fall - exepct in his nightmares. And it wasn't the "bad" fear of something. It was that chill, that feeling of something strange and not totally safe, that he carved since he returned from the war and He made John feel it again. A part of John tried to remove the thought, but the other part was ecxited at the prospective of something that could bring himself out of his nearly comatose life once again. He walked in the kitchen. He didn't smile, but he heard a small laugh. Another chill.