John was coping; he was coping even after three years. He was dead, but no matter how hard John tried he could not seem to pound that into his head. His limp had returned, along with the nightmares, but this time he did not dream of the war, he dreamt of his best friend, the man he had loved without realizing, jumping off the roof of St. Bart's. He still carried his gun everywhere, the chambers loaded, he told others that it was for protection, but in the end he knew the real reason why it went everywhere with him.
He had stopped seeing his therapist, and though he tried to move on he just couldn't. In the end John stayed in 221b, though the memories were painful, they were his, and he couldn't just up and leave Mrs. Hudson there all alone, she was like a mother to him. He had to get a different job though, he couldn't work at St. Bart's, he couldn't see that spot on the ground where Sherlock had landed.
Everyone around him thought that he had moved on, that he had recovered, but that was only because John never let them see how broken on the inside he was. He had learned how to hide his pain, how to hide everything from everyone, so that they wouldn't question him or pity him. Occasionally he would be recognized on the street as "That fake detective dude's boyfriend" and though it shouldn't hurt him so much, it did, and those people usually were quite lucky if they didn't get punched, he had been taken in by Lestrade multiple times due to violence.
He hailed a cab to take him home from work, and gave the cabbie the address, reclining as he waited to arrive. After a while he noticed that the cab was not headed to 221b, but to an entirely different part of London, so he decided to tell the cabbie.
"Oi, mate, I said 221b Bakerstreet, this isn't the way there."
"I know it isn't, you won't be going there." Said an eerily familiar voice, and John wondered where he had heard that voice before, it sounded so familiar.
"Well then where are you taking me?"
"A place that you might not find familiar, but your friend certainly will. Now would you be so kind as to shut up?" He said irritably.
John stayed quiet, though he had a strong desire to say something; he felt it best to think about what the man had been saying, and to figure out who this man was. Why did that voice sound so familiar? Frustrated, John contented himself to watching the city fly by outside the cab window, trying to figure out what was happening, the cabbie had locked his door, there was no phone signal, and the windows were tinted black, no way to get outside attention.