Given Me Back My Life

By Kathy G.

Summary: This one-shot is a sequel to "Please, God, Let Me Live" and follows the events of the series premiere, "A Study in Pink". John moves out of his old bedsit and into Baker Street. In the process, he ponders the dramatic changes that his life has just most unexpectedly undergone. Thanks to BesleyBean for beta-reading and Brit-picking it for me!

John, who had just finished packing the supplies he had bought for his bedsit, snapped shut the lock on the trunk that Sherlock had brought for his use. He had already packed his suitcase, duffle bag, and army pack with the possessions he'd brought with him from Afghanistan; earlier that day, he had told Mr. Kalluri that he had found another place to live, and that he'd be moving out that day. He would leave his key with his now-ex-landlord before leaving the building. He smiled. It wasn't only the last day of the month, but it was the last day of his existence in his bedsit. His depressing life in that bedsit had already ended.

Once John had finished unpacking, he would ring his IERO to let him know of his new address, and then he would fill out the rental lease agreement that Mrs. Hudson had given him that morning. Since Sherlock held the lease, John wouldn't have to sign one, but he did have to fill out the paperwork that Mrs. Hudson kept on file for all of her tenants. In the process, he would have to write on the form the name of his current employer (none), as well as his now-previous landlord's name as a reference and other necessary details.

With a sigh, the former army doctor turned to Sherlock, who stood next to the now-stripped single bed in his coal-black Belstaff coat over his customary suit, and his blue scarf wrapped around his neck. Behind him, the sun shone through the curtains covering the portion of the window that the heavy yellowish-green drapes didn't hide; the sunlight illuminated the room. He gave Sherlock an easy smile of thanks and nodded toward the trunk. "I don't know where you got hold of that trunk, Sherlock, but thanks. My own luggage wouldn't have been able to hold it all."

"Yes, well, the sooner you're packed, the sooner you can move in," Sherlock pointed out. John smiled. It was true, and besides, he had no desire to remain in that dreary bedsit even a minute longer than he just had to. Returning to the kitchenette, he packed his remaining food in the grocery bags. Upon returning to Baker Street, he would put the perishables in the refrigerator first thing, and then he'd get started unpacking and putting away everything else. At least, he didn't have much to unpack, so it wouldn't take long. Placing his hands on the rim of the sink, he paused to look out the window above it. The mid-afternoon sun poured light into the small kitchenette.

My life won't be endless and dull anymore, and I certainly won't be able to complain of boredom after this, he thought, still smiling. At long last, I've got a reason for living once more, a purpose to my life. I honestly thought that the bullet had taken that away from me permanently, but Sherlock has restored it. He has given me back my life, and my new landlady is so much nicer and more helpful than Mr. Kalluri ever has been. He rolled his eyes. One thing's for certain: we sure won't be arguing over whose turn it is to pay the gas bill! Or what we're going to be watching on the telly.* He snorted at the thought. Guess I'll be including that in my next blog post! And his Baker Street flat is so much nicer than my old bedsit!

He knew that Sherlock concurred with him on that last point. He had seen the consulting detective's grimace as the taxi and the moving van had turned onto the dodgy, unattractive street where John had been living, and Sherlock's second grimace upon entering the dull-green bedsit.

Not to mention that the neighbourhood I'll be living in from now on is so much nicer than this one, John thought. Shops nearby, the Jubilee line handy by, and a city park only a short walk from here! He smiled at the thought. He had walked every day because he'd needed to, but he had never enjoyed walking in that rundown neighbourhood, and as suitable as Russell Square was for walking on the days of his therapy appointments, Regent's Park was so much nicer. It would be a fantastic place to take his daily walks after this. And it was most fortunate that he would not have to walk so far to take the tube or the bus anymore, since unlike Sherlock, he couldn't afford taxis.

Turning around, he said out loud, "As soon as we get back to Baker Street, I'd better ring my IERO, so I can let him know I've moved." And fill out the tenancy agreement Mrs. Hudson gave me, he thought. At least I won't have to get my utilities, or my phone and Internet service, set up this time, so that's one expense I won't be out on.

"And why would you do that?" Sherlock entered the kitchenette and put his hands on his hips. "Except for one—no, two times—you rang him, he was never available to take your calls, and he never responded to your voicemail messages. Besides, he's probably read your blog."

Rubbing the back of his head, John grimaced. "True. All too true, except for your last point; since he's never posted a review to any of my posts, I have no way of knowing if he reads them. However, since he is my IERO, I'm under obligation to inform him of any change of address, so I've got to ring him, even if it's only to leave a message on his voicemail."

"That won't be necessary." Removing his mobile phone from his inside suit jacket, Sherlock pressed a shortcut on its screen, followed by some more. As soon as he had pressed down on the screen the last time, he slipped his phone back into his pocket. "I've just texted him, informing him of your new address."

Smiling and rolling his eyes, John shook his head before picking up the grocery bags. "We'll have to make at least two trips to get everything in the moving van you hired," he said, as he set them on the suitcase. "We can carry my other luggage out to the van in one trip, but the trunk is going to have to be taken down there separately."

"No, it won't." Sherlock turned toward the entrance door as the moving van driver and another man entered the bedsit.

"Are these your luggage?" the driver asked John, gesturing towards the trunk and the other luggage.

With a nod, John picked up his army pack and the now-bulging grocery bags. "Yes." After the driver picked up the suitcase and duffle bag, the other man grasped the edges of the trunk and lifted it. The two men carried them out the door and down the hall towards the lift, followed by Sherlock and John. As soon as they reached the ground floor, while the men carried John's luggage out the lobby door and to the kerb, John returned his bedsit key to Mr. Kalluri while Sherlock waited for him inside the office doorway. Upon following Sherlock out into the bright sunshine and towards the kerb, he discovered that the men had loaded it all in the back of the moving van. The wind was blowing from the east, he noticed. Since it was the last day of January, and since the wind felt chilly, John's Haversack jacket felt good over his oatmeal-coloured jumper and the button-down shirt underneath, which he had also worn the day before. The van driver took John's army pack and grocery bags from his hands and placed them in the van along with the rest.

The two men then climbed into the driver's seat and closed the van doors; John and Sherlock stepped into the taxi idling behind it. Pulling away from the kerb, the two vehicles entered the left lane and drove toward the Thames River and Westminster.

I'll have to tell Harry about the move, too, John thought, glancing down at his hands, which were resting on his lap, and then gazing out the window at the shops whizzing past. I can't leave that for Sherlock to do. She already knows from my blog post, night before last, of my plans, but she doesn't yet know I've decided to move in. But first, I will still ring my IERO to make sure he knows. It was good of Sherlock to text him for me, but I don't know if he's faithful about checking his texts. He's surely faithful about checking his voicemail, though, even though he's not so very faithful about responding to them. A wry smile crept across his face. As soon as I can, I'm going to post what's happened in the last couple of days on my blog. I've already blogged about my initial meeting with him, and Harry and Bill have already posted comments in response. One thing's for sure: I can't complain that I've got nothing to blog about anymore!

As soon as the taxi and the moving van pulled up in front of 221B Baker Street, the front door swung open just as John and Sherlock were getting out of the cab; Mrs. Hudson stood in the doorway, beaming. "Here, Dr. Watson! I've already got the doors to the lounge and your new room open, so you'll be able to carry everything inside as soon as you come in," she said. Smiling broadly, John approached the door, and Mrs. Hudson stepped back so that he and Sherlock could enter the hall.

With both hands, the driver picked up John's suitcase, army pack, duffle bag, and grocery bags, and the other man lifted the trunk. They carried John's luggage up the stairs into the lounge, where they set them on the floor in the corner. Immediately, John removed the perishables from the grocery bags and put some of them in the freezer and the rest of them in the refrigerator, and then stepped back into the lounge. "Thank you," he said, smiling as he removed his jacket and glanced down at his now-rumpled clothes.

"You're welcome, mate," the driver said, smiling back, and then he and the other man left.

Mrs. Hudson stood hovering to the side, waiting to help, as John hung his jacket on a door hook and then started off by opening the trunk, sorting out his possessions as he removed them, since they would be going into different rooms. He took the kitchen supplies and the first-aid kit into the kitchenette and put them away, while Mrs. Hudson took his bathroom supplies into the bathroom in the hall next to the kitchenette. John laid the phone charger and the mobile phone on the side table next to the stuffed armchair that he had claimed for his own during his previous visit the night before, and then he set his books in one of the bookcases. He already knew that he would be using that armchair a lot. He laid his laptop, pens, and spiral notebooks on the table next to the lounge window, where Sherlock had already laid some of his own things.

"You won't be needing these anymore, John," Sherlock announced, holding up the bedcovers. "You'll be sleeping in a double bed from now on, so I'll just bin these."

"No!" Whirling around and darting toward his new flatmate, John snatched the bedcovers from Sherlock's arms before Sherlock could take them out the door. "These are perfectly good bedcovers, and someone will be able to use them, if I can't. I'll donate them to Oxfam first chance I get, so just leave them, Sherlock." I better get some new bedcovers, too, he thought.

He glanced down at his suitcase. "Well, I'd better take my suitcase, duffle bag, and army pack upstairs; I've still got to change my clothes and put my clean clothes away." He pressed his lips together. "Along with certain other things." He didn't dare say anything about his gun in front of Mrs. Hudson.

"While you finish unpacking, I'll go downstairs and make us all some tea," Mrs. Hudson offered. "Then I'll take your old bedding to Oxfam, since I've got a couple of errands to run this afternoon, anyway."

John smiled at her. "That's very kind of you, Mrs. Hudson, and tea would be lovely. Thank you."

Grasping the handles of the suitcase, the army pack, and the duffle bag in both hands, he carried them up the stairs to his new bedroom on the second floor, where he laid them all on the double bed. Mrs. Hudson had made it for him before he arrived, he noticed; the bedcovers looked so fresh and clean, and the bed looked inviting. As soon as he could, he would need to purchase some new sheets and pillowcases for his new bed; he would probably go to the nearest Poundstretcher to get those. The aluminium cane still leaned against the wall in the corner where John had left it the night before, he noticed. Thank goodness he no longer needed it! Hopefully, his left hand's intermittent tremor would no longer be much of a problem, either, after this. After dining at the Chinese restaurant near Roland Kerr College, where the cab driver-turned-serial killer had come so close to murdering Sherlock before John's intervention, John and Sherlock had got back to the flat at 2:00 in the morning, where John had taken his cane upstairs and slept in his clothes on the double bed's bare mattress and pillow. That morning, as soon as they'd been satisfied that the businesses were opening, Sherlock had rung the moving van company and asked them to send a van and a driver to John's bedsit, to take his things to Baker Street.

After John had changed his clothes and dumped his dirty clothes into the laundry hamper Mrs. Hudson had placed in his new room, he spent the next several minutes unpacking his bags and putting away his clothes; he also laid the rubber therapy ball on his new dresser, and his gun and bullets in one of the drawers. Thank goodness he had cleaned his gun early that morning; at least there was no evidence that it had been used the night before. He would try to figure out what to do with it later; perhaps, later, he would also set his phone charger on the bedside table in there. When finished, John closed the bags and set them on the floor in the wardrobe.

Then the retired army doctor picked up the rental lease agreement that Mrs. Hudson had handed him earlier that morning, and which he had brought upstairs to his new room. For a moment, he scanned it and then nodded. It had what John had expected it to have: the landlord and tenant's names, the address, the amount of rent that had to be paid per month, etc. Among other things, it asked for the name of his current employer (none) and references from his past landlords (in his case, just one since he had been discharged from the army). John would have to contact Ganesh Kalluri and ask him to send Mrs. Hudson a reference. As soon as time permitted, he would get started filling it out.

With a sigh, he set the tenancy agreement on the nightstand and sank down onto the edge of the bed and, perched there with his hands clasped in his lap, gazed at his new surroundings. A contented smile spread across his face. This was a much nicer bedroom than any he had ever slept in before, whether it was in Chelmsford, his non-en suite at uni, the army, or his most recent bedsit. And the lounge downstairs was so nice and homey, nothing like his old depressing bedsit. It would be a great place to read a book, to spend some time on his laptop, or to watch telly or listen to the wireless. He himself had never owned a telly or a wireless, but he'd noticed that Sherlock did. And since Sherlock's flat had a full bathroom off the hall and a cloakroom** on the second floor next to John's cheerful new bedroom, at least he could use his own toilet when he was upstairs or when Sherlock was using the other one, and the only person he would have to share the tub with was Sherlock.

I never expected this, the ex-army doctor thought, reaching up with his left hand to scratch the side of his neck. Only two days ago, I was all set to end my life, I felt so hopeless. I was convinced things would never change, and I couldn't bear it any longer. And then—and then, I run into Mike Stamford, and he introduces me to Sherlock Holmes, and— His thoughts broke off. A thankful smile spread across his face. I owe a huge debt to Mike. He doesn't know it, but he actually saved my life! I must make sure to update him, as well as Harry and my IERO! Of course, it's entirely possible that my IERO already knew even before Sherlock texted him. If he's read my blog, then he most definitely knows. But still…

John scanned his new room for a brief moment. I need to tell Bill about this, too; he already knows I've met Sherlock, but he doesn't yet know that I've decided to take the flat. And Ella; she'll want to know that I've moved. He rolled his eyes. I wonder what she'll think about Sherlock, when I tell him about her?

He frowned as an unpleasant reality occurred to him. Unfortunately, even though I won't have to pay any deposits this time, my army pension alone won't be enough to cover expenses here, not in Westminster, and my savings in my current account will only stretch so far. My pension was just barely enough to live on at the bedsit; it sure won't be enough to live on here. I'll still have to pay my share of the rent and our other monthly expenses, as well as my phone and Internet service, and my pension just won't cover all that. A flat share will help greatly, but that alone won't be enough. I've got enough left in the bank to last me for now, which'll help, but it's going to run out in a few months. I'm going to have to start looking for a job soon.

He grimaced. It'll mean working as a GP, and I'll probably end up having to work as a locum. But hopefully, the work I'll be doing with Sherlock will be enough to make up for the tedium of a GP job. And I hope that in five years, the GMC will clear me to work as a surgeon once more. Which will have to be enough, since I can never work as a soldier again. As soon as he could, he would register with the Primary Care Trust# and start seeking locum work. Meanwhile, he knew, he would have to be honest with Mrs. Hudson and admit that he was currently unemployed. Hopefully, with the help of the PCT, he would be able to change that soon.

"John?" Mrs. Hudson's voice called from the landing below. "Teatime!"

John rose to his feet. "Coming!" he called. After giving his new bedroom one last quick scan and straightening his black-and-white-checked button-down shirt, he stepped briskly out the door, shutting it behind him; his shoes clicked on the floor as he hurried toward the stairs. His old lonely, dreary life in his bedsit was over; his new exciting, purposeful life on Baker Street was just beginning.

XXXXXXX

*John's thoughts about the telly and the gas bill are a reference to one of the things he mentioned in his January 31st blog post.

**In England, a cloakroom is another name for what we Americans call half-baths, which only contain sinks and commodes—no bathtubs. Perhaps medicine cabinets are also included in them?

#An excerpt from Wikipedia: "Primary care trusts (PCTs) were part of the National Health Service in England from 2001 to 2013. PCTs were largely administrative bodies, responsible for commissioning primary, community and secondary health services from providers. Until 31 May 2011, they also provided community health services directly. Collectively PCTs were responsible for spending around 80 per cent of the total NHS budget. Primary care trusts were abolished on 31 March 2013 as part of the Health and Social Care Act 2012, with their work taken over by clinical commissioning groups."