He wasn't sure where they had found his temporary address at the bed-sit, but the announcement of Mr. James Howell's upcoming funeral was passed through his mail slot within the next few days. John didn't see his attendance as necessary and, instead, he carried on as normal. He had already decided to continue his visits to the neurology ward with or without an extra person to read inane articles to, but he still allowed Dr. Stein to take him aside for tea when she had time. The swelling frustration in the back of his throat never really left him for long, but he obliged as well as he could and kept it all under wraps.

If she wanted to believe, along with the rest of the general populace, that he was so damn fragile, then he didn't care to refute her assumptions. He didn't have the energy to explain that her hospital's mortality rate was laughable in comparison to what he had experienced in Afghanistan. He didn't want to allow himself to have an outburst about how losing a man with health complications at eighty-seven was significantly less upsetting than watching an able bodied twenty-three year old bleed out on foreign soil.

Still, for the first time that month, he found himself getting distracted.

Harry had offered to take him out to dinner that evening. That meant, from his experience, that she had probably found somebody new that she wanted to introduce him to. John certainly would never want to deprive her of a bragging opportunity, after all. She needed somebody that could put a spring in her step and simultaneously kick-start her into functioning like a normal human being, but, if he knew anything about her, he was sure that the relationship was already messy and complicated and dramatic. She liked it when her women made her back-flip through hoops to please them. She wanted to earn their affections through her own merit.

John suspected that it ran in the family.

"Here's something on that robbery again… It looks like they managed to find most of the stolen goods in Kew Gardens, for some reason. They recovered roughly 3.5 million of their loss, and everything seems to be in good shape. I wonder why they would only keep 500 grand for themselves, after going through the trouble of killing two-"

John's pocket buzzed and, despite the fact that Sherlock was certainly not in any condition to consider him impolite for taking a call, he found himself apologising before picking up.

"Hello? Oh, Harry. Yeah, wait, slow down-… Of course. Erm. I suppose that I could, if you need to… Are you sure everything is fine? You don't sound like-… Well, alright. If you're sure I can't help with... Yeah. I'll see you around. Bye."

She ended the call and John folded the newspaper in his lap, leaning down to rest his head in his hands. His elbows dug into Sherlock's hospital bed, leaving new creases in the sheets by his waist. For a moment, he simply watched Sherlock's chest rise and fall as he often did, but it didn't do much to make him feel better.

"Dinner was cancelled," he finally said. "It's fine, of course- Harry has a new girlfriend, so I can't exactly expect… So I shouldn't expect… It doesn't really matter. I'll likely be in the same place, doing the same things, when they aren't busy."

He laughed for a moment, but it felt hollow and stupid.

"It sounded like something was up anyway, if they couldn't make it. Harry has never really been the type to just… blow me off."

That was a lie- Harry always cancelled at the last minute- but nobody needed to know that. It felt like sacrilege to speak poorly of her, even if Sherlock couldn't hear him. So what if dining alone would be squeezing his budget? So what if he had been eating nothing but super noodles and couscous for the last three weeks? Plenty of people did that. Even more were stood up for thinly veiled reasons. It was ridiculous of him to feel let down.

'Harry is an adult,' he reminded himself silently. 'She can do whatever she wants, and it's none of my concern.'

John's phone buzzed from where he had set it down on Sherlock's bed and he exhaled slowly before picking it up.

"'Might need your help after all'," he read under his breath, "'can't find Alice, family won't talk to me and something's up. Meet at 4, the Black Bull'… God. Here we go again."

John checked his watch before glancing out the window at the sky. It had been opened again, and a light film of condensation had formed on the underside of the glass. Probably not too cold, but sometimes his leg ached at the slightest hint of terrible weather.

Somebody had changed the flowers out again. He hadn't even noticed that.

"I guess I'd better leave, then. I'm sorry that I couldn't stay as long as I normally do."

He pulled himself up from his chair and pocketed his phone, ignoring the slight throb of pain under his knee.

"Oh, who am I kidding? You wouldn't have noticed the difference. It's as if I'm not even here."

And, in less than two minutes, every trace of John was gone from the room.


This is a bit of a short chapter, but necessary! There's a lot more for the next one, promise. Thanks for the lovely reviews, guys!