'Where have you been?'

Evie winced at the loudness. The aspirin hadn't kicked in yet so she'd been forced to make her way home with a killer headache. Luckily, she'd had her sunglasses in her bag to hide from what she felt was an inappropriately bright morning. And luckily, nobody had stolen anything.

Waking up alone in an unfamiliar hotel room with hardly any memory of the night before was more than a little scary. She'd scrambled to check on her belongings and found them all present and accounted for. Apart from her hangover, she didn't feel any sort of discomfort. She tidied herself up, then raced (or, walked as quickly as she could manage) down to reception.

'The room was booked under a mister Phillip Wilkins,' the receptionist had informed her. Evie racked her brain for any knowledge on this name or this person, but found nothing, and the receptionist told her that everything had been paid for, including breakfast, so if she'd like to make her way toward the dining hall...

'Out,' Evie croaked.

John stared at her incredulously. 'Out where?' He demanded. 'I've been up all night, worried sick. You said you wouldn't be out late!'

'Yeah I know,' Evie answered with barely contained impatience. Her head thumped.

'You said you'd be back-'

'Well, I changed my mind, alright?'

'I haven't slept a wink-'

'Well I'm sorry that I wanted to have a night out!' She yelled at him, and though she knew she was misunderstanding, she didn't care because her head was pounding and last night had scared her and she wanted to lock herself in her flat and be sad in peace. There. No tip-toeing or denying or poetics, she was just fucking sad. 'Sorry I didn't ask your permission to go to the bar, sorry I wasn't here to make you fucking cocoa and hold your hand! I have a life too, John!'

He flinched, as if she'd struck him – which it felt like she had. Her misplaced anger died like a flame in a vacuum. She sagged against the wall.

'I'm sorry, John. It's just- I'm- I didn't mean it,' she finished lamely.

'You don't have to do anything you don't want to,' he muttered. 'I didn't ask you to-'

'I know you didn't ask. I wanted to-'

'I don't want you to feel obliged or-'

'I don't feel obliged-'

'If it's pity-'

'John, no,' she sighed tiredly, rubbing her eyes. 'I like being your friend. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to blow up like that, it's just-'

'It's okay. You don't owe me an explanation-'

'Yeah, I do. I promised I would be here and I bailed, and then I yelled at you for no reason. I just stopped by a bar on my way back and I got carried away.' Those last words sounded familiar, but she couldn't place them. 'It was a bad decision, and I was really, really stupid. I'm really sorry, John.' She sighed again, messing her hair with her fingers in frustration. 'I spend all this time going around and pretending that I understand and that I know it'll get better, and I keep telling you, John, that it's going to be okay and that I know what it's like, but I don't. I'm not better, and I don't know what I'm doing and I've just been a hypocrite this whole time.'

John took a step closer. 'Evie?' He said. 'What're you-'

'Nothing.' She let her arms fall to her sides. 'It's nothing. I'm just really tired. And, again, I'm sorry for being such a twat.'

John cracked a smile. 'That's alright.'

They stood in awkward silence.

'I think I should go to bed,' Evie said finally.

'Oh, uh, yeah. You do that. I'll see you... ah...'

'Dinner?' She suggested.

'Dinner,' he agreed.

'I'll see you then, John Watson.'

When the door clicked shut behind her, John returned to his apartment, kicked off his shoes and lay on his bed. He was tired, so tired that it felt like he couldn't sleep. He thought about Evie, this woman who'd appeared out of nowhere and brought him soup without prompt. He thought about all the times she'd given him company when he'd craved it, and space when he'd asked, how she'd shopped for his groceries and done his laundry and distracted him and he realised he didn't really know much about her at all. He'd begun to love the idea of her and not the person; he'd been enamoured with the thought of a pretty young woman who was clever and kind and wanted to take care of him. He'd painted her into this fictional figure who existed purely to fill his needs, written her into a 2D character who didn't have her own problems or worries or pains. He'd forgotten that she existed independently of him. He'd forgotten she was a person.

So, yeah, she had been wrong; but she was human and so, by default, far from perfect.

When Evie arrived home from work at ten on a Tuesday night in March, all she wanted to do was sleep. Instead, she had a shower, put on her pyjamas, and walked into 221b without knocking. John was sitting in his armchair with a glass of wine in hand, doing nothing in particular but thinking and drinking.

'Hey, Evie,' he greeted with a raise of his glass. 'How was work?'

'Horrible,' she answered, flopping down on the lounge. She'd gotten a job waitressing at a cafe down the street a month back. 'It was packed to the rafters, and Madge was been a complete cow for no reason at all, as usual.' Her expression softened. 'How about you? How was your day?'

He took a sip of wine. 'Six months, today,' he told her.

She folded her arms on the arm of the chair and rested her chin. 'Yeah.'

'Want a glass?'

She eyed the bottle of wine, still mostly full, with suspicion. 'I dunno,' she said warily, 'didn't we already establish that drowning our sorrows didn't work?'

John chuckled. 'I'm not drowning anything,' he assured her. 'I'm just... thinking, I guess.'

'No thanks. I think I drink too much wine.' She smiled at him. 'Wouldn't mind some tea, though.'

He chuckled and stood, putting on the kettle and fetching her a mug.

'Half a year already,' John sighed from the kitchen.

'Doesn't seem it, does it?'

'No.' He shook his head. 'It doesn't. It seems like less. And like more.' He stopped. 'That doesn't make sense, does it?'

'No, it does.' John poured the water, added milk and sugar, and offered it to Evie. She accepted it and he sat back down, picking up his wine glass again.

'I was thinking,' John let his head fall back, 'of getting a job. Just at a practice, somewhere local. Low key. Ordinary. Just to... get out of the house. And start earning some money.'

'That sounds like a good idea,' she approved. 'Got to move on eventually, right?'

'Right,' he agreed. 'Right?'

'Right.'

He poured himself another glass. 'And I, uh, I met someone.'

'Oh,' Evie blinked. John glanced at her. 'Who is she?'

'Her name's Mary. We were in line together at the supermarket and started talking. She gave me her number.'

'Well, that's good, isn't it?'

'Think so, yeah.'

'As long as she makes you happy.'

An uncomfortable silence fell.

'I still miss him,' John said softly.

'You'll never stop.'

'Does it get easier?'

'No.' Her eyes crinkled around the edges as she smiled. 'But it doesn't get harder.'

In which John learns to imagine people complexly, and Evie learns that she needs John as much as he needs her.