Sorry for the short chapter. I ran out of ideas and was extremely tired.
The chapters are going to switch off from John's point of view to Sherlock's. Telling you so you wont be confused. THANKS (:
The alarm clock rang. The soldier rubbed his eyes wearily and yawned. He swung his legs around the side of the bed and stood up tiredly, swaying a little bit. He ruffled his tousled blond hair. He walked out of his room and into the kitchen. He stretched up and took out some tea from the high wooden cupboard. He sleepily shuffled over to the fridge and swung it open, causing some of the containers to bump into each other and fall onto the floor. John kicked a jar of pickles that landed near his foot.
"Dammit," he muttered. "Out of milk again. Some things never change, do they." He marched back into his room, threw on his coat, and grabbed his wallet. Then the doctor stormed out of his flat, slamming the door behind him angrily.
John stood outside in the cold, pulling his arms close to him for warmth. People walked past him, some rushed and others taking their time. A couple bumped into him and he was pushed against the wall. He leaned back and closed his eyes. Something across the street caught his attention. He looked across the street at the store's dark window. He noticed the dark silhouette of a tall and thin man staring back at him. He noticed the outline of his curly hair and his long overcoat. The mysterious man reminded him of someone. Sherlock.
"No, nope. That can't be him," John said under his breath. "Sherlock is dead. You're just seeing things." He shook his head and hailed a cab. On the drive to the supermarket, John couldn't stop thinking about what he saw. Was there a possibility that Sherlock was actually alive? He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. It was all too much.