Chapter 2-Sighting
Once he was dressed and presentable, John left the apartment, not bothering to eat breakfast. He hardly ever ate anymore, and as a result he was stick thin, with dark eyes that stared out of his too-gaunt face. Everyone told him that he needed to take care of himself, even Lestrade on the few occasions they had seen each other, but John simply didn't care enough to eat. He wasn't trying to starve himself, he just didn't notice. Even now, after he had supposedly gotten over Sherlock's death and moved on with his life, he found himself facing some inexplicable barrier that separated him from the rest of the world, a barrier of grief, anger, and even a little left over denial.
After the first two weeks following Sherlock's death, during which John alternately cried and thought that it must have been a terrible dream, John never missed a day of work. He showed up exactly at 8:45 am, began seeing patients at 9, and clocked out at 5. He did it mechanically, going through the motions, but never really seeing any of his patients. The other doctors and assistants left him well enough alone, and he avoided them. Part of John was surprised that he was able to carry on so well, pretend that everything was normal, but a small part of him craved his job, craved the sense of normalcy it created. Who was he to argue? He had nothing else to occupy his time now, no cases to solve, no Sherlock to follow. His life was a shell of what it had once been.
John would remember the date of this particular day for a long time. December 13, 2012. As he waited to cross the street, a taxi pulled up, right next to the curb. Out of habit instilled in him by Sherlock, John gave the cab a quick appraisal. What he saw made his blood seem to stop in his veins. The tinted windows made it difficult to see, but John would recognize that profile, that hair, even that coat with the collar turned up, he would recognize them anywhere. Without thinking he ran forward the few steps to the cab and pounded on the window.
"Sherlock!" he cried. "Sherlock!" The man in the cab turned to look at him and John struggled to make out his features through the dark glass. The man leaned forwards and said something to the cabbie who immediately floored the gas pedal, leaving John standing on the curb, confused, a little hurt, and more alive than he had been in a year. He had been right. Sherlock was alive, he had seen him. The only thing he couldn't work out was why Sherlock hadn't spoken to him, and why, if he had been alive all this time, he had never approached John, never come back to him. He stood on the edge of the street watching the cab pull out of sight, and he could have sworn that the man turned around and watched him too.
It was well after 9 before John made it to his office, but he barely noticed. So focused, so determined to solve the problem at hand, he paid even less attention to his patients than usual, almost diagnosing a woman with tuberculosis when in fact she was allergic to pollen. At 5 he drifted out of the office, walking slowly and thoughtfully back to 221B Baker Street. He had no idea how, but somehow Sherlock had survived and John was determined to find him.
