John woke early the next morning. He sat at the edge of his bed, taking several deep breaths. He had a monstrous headache, though he certainly hadn't had enough to drink to cause a hangover. He forced himself up out of bed and went down for a shower.
He stopped short as he entered the mostly-bare living room. A twinge in his gut made him regret packing up the room. He sighed, trying to clear his mind. He knew he had a full day of appointments ahead of him; he didn't need to be distracted today.
John's day was indeed busy, busier than he had thought it would be. He'd barely had time to breath, let alone mope about. He managed to drink a cup of coffee between patients, but his lunch break was interrupted by an emergent appointment. By the end of the day, John was exhausted. He grabbed another cup of coffee before catching a cab to the tube station. The commute back to Baker Street was unremarkable, but John was overjoyed to see the lights of his flat shining through the windows onto the pavement.
Upon entering the stairwell, he noticed that Mrs. Hudson's flat appeared to be empty and quiet. She had been coming down with a cold, so he just assumed that she had turned in early. That was his plan, anyway. He climbed up the first flight of stairs and only paused in the main room long enough to throw his jacket over the back of a chair. He then trudged heavily up to his room and collapsed on his bed, barely managing to strip himself down to his undershirt and boxers and drop his clothes in a heap on the floor. His tired brain was asleep within moments of hitting the pillow, haven taken almost no notice to his surroundings as he had made his way through the flat. Indeed, aside from being only just conscious enough to not fall asleep in his clothes, he had failed to notice that everything that had been packed up and stowed away the day before was all back in its original positions, just as they had been since the previous June. He failed to notice the kettle sitting on the stovetop instead of its customary place in the cabinet, or the teacup sitting on the table in the sitting room, steam still rising.
John had missed all of this.
Author's Note:
Hey there. So, this is the first fic I've written in years. Tossing the first chapter up on ff.n was a bit of an experiment. I'm still not super sure about it, so some criticism for it would be appreciated. Also, I have a hard time finishing stories sometimes, so I apologise ahead of time. Also, you may have noticed that this chapter is far, far shorter than the first. That happens. I'm not a consistent writer. Sorry again. Also, I didn't mention before, either, but I do not actually own Sherlock. I think disclaimers are stupid, seeing as how this is a fanfiction site. Obviously, we don't own the stuff we're writing about. Either way. A few reviews would be pleasing to this one. Cheers.