Chapter 4-Moving

Three years had passed. Three years since John had last spoken to Sherlock, three years since Sherlock had said goodbye to him. Three years that John had lived alone in 221B, living on hope and desperate longing and waiting for the man he loved to come home to him. He was barely recognizable as the man everyone had once known as John Watson. He had lost so much weight that his ribs were clearly visible. He walked with a cane again, not because of a limp, but because he was so weak that he needed it for support. His once blonde hair was streaked with grey. But perhaps the most noticeable difference was his eyes. No longer where they bright and full of life, or hope. They were dead, dead windows into a dead heart. They were ringed by eternal dark circles, and framed by an ashy-gray face. He had left the clinic where he worked 6 months previously, due to his own infirm health, and now he was preparing to leave Baker Street. He didn't want to. He would never want to. But the fact was he couldn't pay rent, and even though Mrs. Hudson had told him to stay as long as he liked, he knew that she needed the money a lodger could provide. So during the month of December, John began to pack up his few things.

The difficulty he now faced was what to do with Sherlock's belongings. John had never touched them, not any of them. He had left them in place so that when Sherlock finally came back, he would feel at home right away. But he couldn't leave it here for Mrs. Hudson to clean up. Neither, however, could he take it with him. It wasn't his, and besides, he didn't have a home. Finally, just three days before he planned on moving out, he gave in and called Mycroft.