John hobbled into the sitting room, cursing loudly as he faltered and spilled his hot tea all over his fingers. It had been five months, and he had given up hope that Sherlock's stunt had all been an elaborate hoax. He still knew, of course, that it had been his friend's final words (and not his whole profession) which had been a lie. However, his heart no longer knew that Sherlock was still alive out there somewhere, and as the dangerous lifestyle slowly faded from John's daily routine, so had his limp slowly faded back into existence. John only wished he could carry on the detective's work, or do something to clear his name, but those days were over, and his body seemed to have accepted that fact.