Five months later, and John still hadn't moved out of 221B. By this point, he had managed to remove or box up some of Sherlock's things, or rather, he had let Ms Hudson move some of Sherlock's things. (John had however, felt compelled to remove some of the remnants of Sherlock's nastier experiments himself, for the sake of common decency and hygiene.)
Every day was a bleak blur. It wasn't as if his world stopped turning when Sherlock died- but it was as if all the interesting went out of it. His days were filled with the mundane, average trifles of some former life. He resorted to the half-hearted smiles, the nonchalant small talk he had perfected upon his return from Afghanistan. He returned to his averagely paid work- he couldn't afford to keep the flat on his own, he knew, but Ms Hudson kept telling him not to worry- John had a sinking feeling Mycroft was involved. He got a sick churning sensation in his stomach when he thought of the man, when he thought of him practically handing over Sherlock's life story on a plate, sending him to his death. The cold faced executioner who cared enough for his brother to spy on him for his safety, but not enough to put him before the work of the British Government.
John even returned to his therapist- although there was only so many times she could encourage him gently to express his feelings on everything and anything, and only so many times John had expressed that he did not wish to do so, not quite yet.
After four months John started missing appointments. After four and a half he stopped going altogether.
He resumed a comfortable friendship with Sarah, but never talked to her about Sherlock. The closest she had come to asking him about him was "I know what it's like to lose someone, I'm so sorry, John. You must miss him. " This did not get a response, and seeing a slightly hard look return to Johns face she rapidly changed to subjects to embarrassing patient anecdotes.
He dated often, but seemed to have no more success with his relationships than when Sherlock was around. He always blamed the failure of his previous relationships on Sherlock ...
"Sherlock, why is it that whenever a girlfriend dumps me, they mention you as a reason?"
"Don't be ridiculous John, This particular deterioration in your relationship status has nothing to do with me, it's because you forgot her birthday two days ago and couldn't tell her cats apart."
...but now he had to admit that something must be off about his dating technique. He'd had seven relationships- well, six because two weekends doesn't count as a relationship, he reminded himself- turn sour in the months since Sherlock's death.
Maybe he wasn't paying them enough attention, he thought. I should keep my diary more up to date. Maybe try online dating.
Maybe it was the fact that he never mentioned Sherlock to any of them, and that they'd found out about his loss through his (un-updated) blog or a mutual acquaintance.
But that was the point, wasn't it? He didn't want to talk. He wanted distracting, a nice soft body to curl up against at night, some comfort and normality.
John sighed, and hung his head. He was up at 3am again, trudging round with sleep in his eyes, fixing himself a cup of tea. Perhaps he was sick of normality. He had been a soldier, and he had been the partner of a consulting detective, danger around every corner. Now, the only danger he felt was the drop in his stomach when he bumped into Greg or Sally in the supermarket.
He switched on the telly, knowing he wouldn't be able to get back to sleep for a while, and let the mindless buzz of whatever repeat of a 90's TV show it was wash over him as he sipped his tea.
Yes, John Watson was bloody well sick and tired of Normality.
