Beta'd by WhirligigSwirl

July

John didn't get out much anymore. The amount of time he was spending in the house was honestly a bit extreme. He had always been a social person, but it couldn't be denied that he was also a bit of a homebody. His hermit-like ways weren't helped by his steadily increasing reliance on his cane. He was able to get around without it in a pinch, but the pain grew worse with each passing day, and he found himself reaching for it more and more. And he was lonely. There was no other word for it. He needed company, and soon.

Truth be told, his social circle had never been large, but it was even smaller now, as most of the people he had considered his friends a year or two ago were still in Afghanistan (Or dead, his mind whispered.). The thought consumed him. A medical discharge made him unfit for service, and the army would never let him back because of it. The military was easy to live in because there was nothing to worry about. They took care of you, provided food, clothes, a place to live. On top of that, the friendships he made there were deep and strong, rivalling all but his friendship with Sherlock. However, he hadn't spoken to his army friends in months.

He decided to take a walk. It was slow going, because of his leg, (which wasn't really hurt, he reminded himself) as he hobbled to the park. At least the hand tremor hadn't returned along with it. It was a hot, sunny day, and the surrounding area was full of people walking their dogs and children playing. He sat on a bench, enjoying the heat and the sounds of life around him. An hour passed, then two. Finally, he decided it was time to go home. As he was making his way back to his bedsit, he passed the Criterion Café. With a pang, he remembered Mike Stamford. The friend who was always there, the one who always remembered to call on your birthday. Without a second thought, he pulled out his mobile and dialled.

"Stamford."

"Hi, Mike. It's John."

"John! I was beginning to think you were dead." Stamford, although a fantastic mate, never really developed the correct amount of tact.

"Ha, no. Still here. Listen, d'you want to grab a pint sometime this week? Maybe catch the match?"

"A drink would be great. How's Friday? I know it's short notice. I hope you don't have anything else on."

"Eh, no, no. I'm free. Six?"

"Sure. Meet you at the Triangle?"

"Great. See you then."

John arrived at six o'clock sharp, to find that Mike was already sitting at the bar, nursing a pint and ogling the far-too-young-for-him barmaid. "Sometimes it feels like nothing has changed," John said contemplatively, sliding onto the stool next to him. The Triangle had been Stamford's favourite place when they were lads at school. It was close to Bart's, but not so close that all the patrons were students. John was secretly relieved that they weren't the oldest people in the place, either.

"Don't I know it. The kids who come through Bart's are all the same, bright things that they are."

"That used to be us," John replied.

"Eh, not anymore. Ancient history." John frowned. He had been feeling older than usual lately, and the cane certainly didn't help. Suddenly a sly look came over Mike's face. "Say, have you been working?"

"Er, uh, no. Not lately, anyways. I'm sure something will come up." Mike's smile broadened.

"There's a post at Princess Grace! They're looking for GPs! I think it's close to your flat."

"It's not close to my flat at all," John responded without thinking. Mike shot him a strange look. What- oh. It was close to 221B.

"Maybe not there, then, but I have know people who are looking for a good GP. If you're keen, maybe you can get on as a surgeon."

"I've been out of work for a while."

"You've been out for a while before- !"

"I'll look into it. Thanks, Mike." John cut in quickly. He tried to guide the conversation away from the topic of his work. "So…how about this match?"

Mike had played rugby with him at when he was Bart's, long before his war wounds to make it impossible to take a tackle well. It had been a long time since John had watched a game. Sherlock had dismissed sporting events as mindless drivel, and was inclined to complain loudly whenever John tried to watch. This was a nice change.

By the end of the night, the pair had had quite a bit to drink, and John's head was buzzing. When the match was over, they staggered out into the street and John poured Mike into a cab as Mike said his farewells. "Don't forget to be looking for that job. Do ya good," he slurred.

"Sure thing, Mike. Night."

John took a deep breath of the night air, electing to grab the tube home. It wasn't all that far, and he was feeling short on cash, even though you have Sherlock's fortune, his mind supplied. Either way, he headed off towards the station, knowing full well that a job was nowhere near the top of his list of priorities.

September

The following weeks were, to John's relief, less lonely than the days just after Sherlock's death. John had reined in his pride at last and had started emailing back and forth with his old army mate, Bill Murray. Murray was still in Afghanistan, and John was almost able to live vicariously through his stories of patrols and long days in the wartime. John made it a point to go out with Stamford at least once a week, on Fridays, establishing a tentative connection again. Mike had stopped nagging him about getting a job three weeks in, and started instead a new line of inquiry: "We have got to get you a girl, John Watson". John couldn't say that he enjoyed that topic anymore than he did the job argument. He had been feeling remarkably less charming as of late. Still, it was easy enough to wave that off.

Every Tuesday, like clockwork, he called Mrs. Hudson for tea. Each time, she tried to persuade him to come to her place, and every time he refused, choosing instead to meet somewhere far from Baker Street and the memories locked inside. This time, however, was different. Today, he agreed to have tea in her flat.

It had taken ten weeks of thrice-weekly therapy for John to be able to return to 221B. The thought of doing so no longer gave him heart palpitations. A new term was starting up at Barts, and he had decided that today was the day that he would return all the science equipment that Sherlock had nicked from the hospital over the years. John knew it would be hard to let go of things that were such a big part of his memories of Sherlock, but Ella had said that it may be time to do so, and he couldn't help but agree.

After tea with Mrs Hudson, John limped up the stairs to 221B. As he walked into the flat for the first time in months, he almost choked on the feelings that washed over him. The room was familiar, but everything seemed wrong. The décor and furniture was still the same, practically untouched, but everything personal had been packed into a mountain of cardboard boxes. Labels like Sherlock Journals and Sherlock Clothes jumped out at him from their sides, making his eyes feel slightly damp. A lump formed in his throat.

The box of Sherlock's hospital equipment, at least, was easy enough to locate, placed near the door and marked Bart's in thick black writing. Mycroft (or whoever he had got to do the boxing) had probably known that the items would be returned eventually. Even though it was just the one box, there was so much equipment that the top wouldn't close. The microscope that had "Property of St. Bart's" etched into the side poked conspicuously out over the top. John hefted the box and made his way towards the door. Balancing it carefully on one knee, he flicked off the light, and left 221B, and if he wasn't wholly sane when he closed the door, at least he wasn't a nervous wreck.

Bart's wasn't so far away that he couldn't walk, but the added weight of the box pained his leg terribly, so he hailed a cab instead, electing to splash out a little on the fare.

Unfortunately, John hadn't thought about how much Bart's itself would affect him. The last time he had been here, it had been shortly after the Sherlock's fall. Walking through those doors was immensely painful, but he pushed through it. It was more like a dull ache that sat in his bones than the sharp pain he would have expected. John walked to the receptionist and, taking a deep breath, placed the box on the counter. "Hi, I've a few things I'd like to donate." The receptionist was an attractive brunette, tall, slender, and exactly his type. Once upon a time, he might have flirted with her. But not today.

"Sure, I'll just ring for someone to pick them up. Pathology might want them. They're always complaining that they're short on something!" she said brightly, picking up the phone. she glanced past him, then set the phone down again. "Oh, there's one now! I'll just give it to her. Doctor Hooper?"

John turned abruptly. It's Molly. Of course, he was in Bart's, he would run into Molly. Grand. Just grand. Sod it all.

"John!" Molly says in surprise, eyes wide. "How have you been?"

"Er." He stumbles, "I'm just dropping off a few things. Donations. Here." He indicates the box.

"Thank you," she says, still looking at him cautiously. "No one thinks to give the dead new microscopes!" She laughed nervously, obviously trying to lighten the mood.

"See you later," John says, at the same time Molly says "Want to grab a cuppa"

"Yes," they both say with more nervous laughter.

The hospital had a cafeteria that was bustling and loud, filled with doctors, nurses, the sounds of pagers going off and hurried conversations being had. John had already sat down when Molly returned with a pair of flimsy Styrofoam cups. "Coffee only, I'm afraid."

"That's fine," John replied, smiling tightly.

"I'm so sorry John," she said, sitting down. She gave him a long look full of a pained hardness that he didn't quite understand.

"Me too." He took a large gulp of coffee. "Black with two sugars," he muttered, more to himself than Molly. "It always comes back to him. Always."

"I miss him too. Even though he was awful most of the time," she said softly.

John chuckled a little. "He was awful, wasn't he?"

"I didn't even get the worst of it," she giggled. "Remember that time he shot the Cluedo board?"

"The police actually turned up for that one! Not so good when it's my gun he's firing." Molly was giggling. It sounded lovely.

"When I'd just started at Bart's, he used to abuse the old head of pathology. Switch labels on vials, move everything two inches to the left in his office… the man quit!"

John was grinning widely, but his smile faded a little at the thought that crossed his mind. "It's so nice to be able to think about him without feeling sad."

Her smile faded too. "I know." She reached out tentatively for his hand. He noticed that she was wearing the same lipstick that she had once tried to charm Sherlock with.

"Did you…er…want to grab a drink sometime?"

She immediately pulled her hand back. "Oh, John, I'm sorry, please don't think…no, I'm so sorry."

"It's fine," he said dejectedly, waving it off.

"No, no. We should do something together sometime. Just…not like that. Oh god. I'm so sorry."

"Sure. Maybe coffee again next week?" He could pencil her in right between Mike and Mrs Hudson. Ella would be so pleased.

"I've got to get back to work. I'll call." She got up and threw out her only half-finished drink, flashing him a smile before disappearing out the cafeteria doors. John sat alone for a few minutes longer, finishing the last bit of his coffee. Maybe Mike was right. Maybe he should step up his game, date a little. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to find a job. Time to move on.

John spent the next four days scouring the internet. He printed up new CVs and hit every hospital and clinic that was hiring. Out of thirty-two, he garnered six interviews. He struck out for the high street to hunt up a new wardrobe. Part of moving on was leaving the past behind, and all the worn jumpers that had been with him since before his deployment had to go. He purchased five new button-downs, three pairs of smart trousers, and allowed himself two new jumpers, both far more fashionable than any he had owned before. Sure, it wasn't Sherlock's level of chic, but the new clothes helped to make him look more professional.

The interview at Princess Grace was the only one where he really felt likely to get the job- they were in need of a day surgeon. It was exactly what he was looking for: 9-5, five days a week, on-call for when they needed another pair of hands, and the possibility of promotion if he impressed them sufficiently. John didn't need to be asked twice when they offered him the job. He'd start on Monday. They didn't even mind the cane.

As he left the hospital, John pulled out his mobile and texted Mike the good news. He felt on top of the world. After weeks of crippling depression, things were starting to look up, and not a moment too soon. He decided to walk home, thinking about how conveniently close his new job was as he went.

He was trotting along, appreciating the warm autumn day, when he heard a familiar voice. "—and Anderson, you be damn careful with that evidence, we can't afford a lick of contamination." Bloody hell. He'd stumbled on a crime scene, complete with police tape, Anderson, and Lestrade. He slowed. He hadn't talked to Greg since that day in June, and while he was still angry with him, it had diminished to a low burn in his gut. Lestrade turned around to face the small crowd of passerby that had gathered. "Nothing to see folks," he started, then spotted John standing near the front of the crowd. "John?" Greg was coming over now. He lifted the police tape, beckoning John to enter. John didn't budge an inch. "Did you, er, want to have a look?"

"God, no," he replied quickly, taking a step back.

Greg looked surprised. "I figured since you were by, you must have stolen a police scanner or something," Did Sherlock do that in the beginning? John wondered absently.

"Er, no. I was over at Princess Grace. Job interview."

"Oh. Great. Did you get it?" Greg asked awkwardly, pocketing his hands.

"Yeah. Yeah, I did."

"That's great John! Glad to hear it."

"Thanks. I guess I'll just... be going now." He made to leave, but Greg grabbed his arm.

"Did you want to grab a drink?"

No. "Sure," he responded instead, half-heartedly. Jesus. Everybody and their dog wanted to hang out. Not that John was opposed to the company. And Greg… they had been friends, before all the shite with Moriarty and 'Richard Brook'. Maybe they could be again. Greg smiled and let him go. John walked quickly back to his flat in silence.

This was what normal people did. They had friends. They went out. They built social calendars. It wasn't what Sherlock had done, and it wasn't what he had done with Sherlock in his life. That's when he realised that, slowly but surely, he had begun the ease back into to normal civilian life. It felt good, he thought, like a warm hug on a cold day. John sighed. This was how it was meant to be, but something was still missing.