Chapter Two:
"What are you doing now?"
It was a simple question, but if John had a pound for every time someone asked him that, he'd have been able to afford a better flat. He'd eventually left 221b- too many memories, the absence of its other occupant too conspicuous. John simply could not "move on" to use his therapist's phrase, when he was constantly confronted with the physical reminders of what he had lost. But, he couldn't afford much on his army pension and the locum work, and he had no intention of having another flatmate anytime soon.
He knew it was a reasonable question. After all, John had defined himself after returning from Afghanistan as Sherlock's flatmate, his colleague, his blogger, his friend, his best friend. Even people who had known John before now thought of him in the new context. He'd had his identity as doctor, army man and serving officer stripped away by the Afghan bullet. In its place, he'd put in a new persona. Their joint friends were almost incapable of seeing John as anything other than being joined at the hip with Sherlock. So much so that it routinely led people to the wrong conclusion.
"Why does it always bother you, John, when people talk about us being a couple?"
He'd struggled to explain it to a self-confessed sociopath, a man for whom almost all relationships were transactional. "Normal People tend to define a person by their relationships, Sherlock. It matters if people think we are lovers, as well as friends, especially when we're not. It limits my options with the opposite sex; they will think of me differently."
Sherlock had looked a little perplexed. "It doesn't stop you from getting women to date you, to sleep with you. Why should other people's views matter?" John had sighed; Sherlock's view of himself was totally self-defined, and itwas hard for John to explain his reluctance to invest every single aspect of who he was into being Sherlock's "other half".
So, John understood the logic behind the question being asked of him now. Now that Sherlock was dead, what was John doing? He wished he had a better answer. If Sherlock had asked the question, John knew what he would say. Missing you, you big idiot. Trying to figure out why you did what you did. I thought I knew you; I thought I'd figured you out. But, in my book, you'd never have done that. Pulled off a magic trick and walked back into Baker Street a month later? Yeah, that was more your style. Laughing at all us normal mortals trying to deal with 'sentiment' while you were just above it all. And then you did something like that, killing yourself. I can't decide if it was the most monumental act of selfishness – that would be like you- or idiocy. Come to think of it, that might also be just like you, to underestimate what your own feelings might do to you, if they ever emerged long enough to attract your attention.
So, a good part of what he was doing now was having angry conversations with Sherlock. Trying to understand why. That was when he wasn't beating himself up for missing something important before the rooftop, and wondering if there was something he should have said, or done differently to keep one tall brunet, the world's only consulting detective, away from the edge of that roof. In his dreams, he confronted Moriarty at the pool, in dark alleys, in penthouse suites, even in a taxi one time, pulling out his gun and killing the bastard right then and there. Even if he'd gone to prison, it would have been worth it. He knew that from the very first night in Sherlock's company, when he'd killed Jeff Hope to save Sherlock from his own idiocy over which pill to take.
When he couldn't sleep, when the dreams were too vivid, the nightmares too distressing, his mind turned to all the conversations he wished he'd had with Sherlock, before it was too late. One of his favourites on the play list took place in the lab at St Barts, just after he had exploded, "you machine!" in response to Sherlock's callous comment about Mrs Hudson just being his 'landlady'.
In that imagined conversation, John turned back from the door, and said, wait a minute. You're doing this on purpose. Hitting every hot button you can to get rid of me. You started it last night, when you said there was something you had to do alone, and left me standing on the street outside Kitty O'Reilly's like some …useless appendage. So, this business with Mrs Hudson- you've set it up knowing I will run to her side, and leave you alone, so….what- you can go play with Moriarty on your own? What are you doing, Sherlock? I'm not leaving here until you tell me what the hell is going on.
Hindsight was always a wonderful thing. It was the conversation he should have had, the one that would have changed things. No matter what Sherlock said, how he tried to fend him off, John would not have let go. You've been acting strange for weeks. What are you not telling me, Sherlock?
This is what John was doing now. Having the conversations in his head that he should have had when Sherlock was still alive.
But, when Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Molly, Mike Stamford or even Harry asked that bloody question, "What are you doing now?" he just replied, "Getting on with things. How are you?"