John occupied the living room the next morning, accompanied by Mrs Hudson. He's eyes stung with tiredness, and the light that shone through the window seemed too much for him. Mrs Hudson was sorting through the mail, throwing catalogues aside and tearing open bills. She tore open one of the envelopes and slid out the document inside. She scanned through, and frowned.
"I'll make us some tea." She said quickly, disappearing into the kitchen.
The strange behaviour not going unnoticed by John, he stood up and picked up the letter. It was an electricity bill, and not a cheap one either. John sat back down before Mrs Hudson re-entered the room. He gazed out of the window in thought as his tea was placed in the coffee table in front of him.
"Is anything wrong, dear?" the landlady asked.
"I should get a job." John said bluntly.
"No dear, you need to recover."
"No, I'm not sitting around. It lets me think too much, and we have bills to pay."
Mrs Hudson frowned again. "What makes you think you have to worry about the bills?"
"I looked at the letter, Mrs Hudson; it's obvious we're struggling. I'm a fit, healthy man; I should get a job; simple as that. I'll go to the clinic today and see if there are any places available."
Knowing that John's words were final, Mrs Hudson didn't argue any further.

John went to the clinic later that day, and luckily for him, one of their doctor's had recently gone on leave, and they were looking for a replacement. Fitting the qualifications, he got the job, and would be starting the following week. His spirits lifted slightly at this, because for the first time in a while, he was going to feel useful, and have something else to think about than Sherlock.

The next day around lunchtime, John received a text.
Want something to do?
- GL

What are we talking?
- JW

A case; stolen fortune, strange murder. You in?
- GL

Give me twenty minutes.
- JW

John arrived at the scene of the crime after Lestrade sent him the address. There were several policemen around, searching around the house.
"There's a missing fortune, and a bloke hanging dead from the ceiling. Come upstairs and see." Lestrade gave John a friendly slap on the shoulder before leading him upstairs. They entered a room; the sight that was met was rather terrifying. I man was hanging upside down from the ceiling, but not just that; his face was set in the most wicked smile, as if it was the face of a laughing psychopath, frozen in time. John had a sharp intake of breath.
"Creepy, isn't it?" Lestrade said matter-of-factly. "Take a look."
The detective inspector gestured towards the hanging body. John stepped forward and had a closer look. He suddenly had a cold flush run through him. It felt wrong being there without Sherlock. He felt like he didn't belong. He was the sidekick, not the grand detective; he usually stood on the sidelines making minor or unimportant observations.
"John, are you alright?"
John looked up and saw Lestrade's face, lined with concern.
"Yeah," John said airily, and he moved his gaze back to the body.
He looked closely around every inch of it until-
"Look here," John beckoned Lestrade and pointed the hanging man's neck. "There's something stuck in his neck."
Lestrade called one of his team who put on a pair of gloves and got out an evidence bag. They took out a pair of tweezers and moved them towards the hanging's man's neck. The pulled out the small object and held it to the light.
"It appears to be some kind of thorn." They said, and they placed it into the bag and sealed it.
"Good spotting, John; care to continue?" Lestrade grinned.
John looked at his watch. "Oh, sorry, I can't. I've got an interview to go to." He lied.
"Oh, alright. Good luck with that." Lestrade seemed taken aback, but bid the doctor farewell.
John made his way downstairs and out the front door. The group of policemen were still hanging about, but John noticed there was also a rather pretty woman looking distressed, waiting outside the building. John looked away and continued walking, but she approached him.
"What's happened in there? They won't let me in." she said.
"Who are you?" John asked.
"I'm Mary Morstan; it was my money that was stolen. I just want to know what's going on."
John sighed. "Okay, well I've just been in quickly, and there's a man inside, dead. That's all I know."
"Can I leave you my details so you can contact me if you shed any light?" Mary asked, beginning to dig around in her handbag for a pen.
"Oh, no; I don't work for the police. Sorry."
"Oh," her face fell. "Well, thank you for your help."
"You're welcome." John nodded to her and was on his way.
He didn't like the feeling of that crime scene. It wasn't same without his coated detective stating facts every second, outdoing all policemen on sight; and it wasn't the same not being amazed by those things, as there was no one to amaze him anymore.