As usual, John was woken by his sister Harry noisily preparing tea in the kitchen. "Morning, John", she said, rushing past him out the door while John was sitting up on the sofa and throwing back his blanket.

Being seemingly unable to do anything else than lying around on his sister's sofa and thinking about Sherlock, John sometimes forgot that other people still had lives, duties, jobs… When did I become the damaged one? he thought.

For weeks now, John had been looking for a new apartment. Not that he was making much of an effort. He really only looked over the advertisements in the newspaper because Harry wanted him to.

He couldn't find anything cheap enough to afford on his own but he knew he couldn't sleep on his sister's couch forever. Already he felt like such a burden, although Harry didn't exactly say it. The problem was just…John was scared of living on his own; scared he might go completely mad. But then, his psychological condition couldn't really get much worse.

Pushing himself up from the sofa, John grabbed his walking-cane and groggily stumbled into the bathroom. His leg had begun to hurt again- more than it ever had, actually- after Sherlock's….departure. His psychologist said it was only normal; that, since the pain was psychosomatic it might return, triggered by a traumatic experience. But then, John didn't really believe half of what that psychologist ever told him. Most of the time she just tried to make him say…things. All the things he had "left unsaid".

John would have quit his sessions but he knew he needed them. Besides, Harry wanted him to go and Harry was pretty much all John had at this moment.

Leaning on the sink, John looked at the dismal image of himself in the mirror. His face looked grey, his eyes sunken, there were deep creases on his brow and his sand-coloured hair was standing off his head in all directions.

His day went by in a slow daze, as usual. Getting up, brushing his teeth, thinking of Sherlock, lunch, thinking of Sherlock, supper, Sherlock. He tried to think of other things but before long he always, always seemed to return to the same bloody subject.

Harry returned at around seven in the evening, John was sitting on the sofa, curled up in a thick blanket. The entire day he had stayed in his striped blue pyjamas, barefoot.

"Hello, John" Harry said in a cheerful manner. John gave a grunt in answer. "Have you been doing anything today?" When John didn't answer, she looked him straight into the eye, "Ok. That's it, John, I want you out of here. Don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't want you here. You're my brother and I love you and you know that but I can't let you sit here day after day, slowly but surely ruining yourself. One of these days you're going to have to GET OFF YOUR ASS AND MOVE ON WITH YOUR FUCKING LIFE!" Harry was yelling now.

John just stared at her in surprise. A bit calmer, she continued: „Now, I understand it sucks, John. But at some point you have to stop feeling sorry for yourself, accept what happened and just get back out there, get a flat, get a job…get your life back together. And you're not going to do that so long as I provide you with a bed…of sorts. I'm doing this to help. I know it really doesn't seem that way right now but maybe someday you'll understand. So that's it. I want you out of here by tomorrow night."

For some instants John just stared at her in disbelief. Feeling weak, he got up from the couch.

"Of course. I get it. I'll get out of here first thing tomorrow morning." He tried to sound strong and composed but the sentence came out as a weak, scared whimper.

"I'm sorry, John." She pulled him into a quick hug and disappeared in her room.

John fell back into the couch, moaning almost inaudibly and covering his face with his hands.

xxxx

Sherlock's days seemed endless. All he ever seemed to do was to get up in the morning, entertain himself with his thoughts all day, and go to bed at night. Sleeping. Sherlock Holmes, the only consulting detective in the world was actually getting a healthy amount of sleep. That didn't aid his mental health though. On the contrary, it was starting to drive him mad. The boredom, the silence; the fact that nobody even knew he existed at this point. He felt his mind deteriorate with every second of lethargy. It was just so frustrating.

Wearing nothing but his dressing gown, Sherlock got up from the sofa he'd been lying on all day and started pacing up and down, measuring the very limited space of his apartment with long strides like an encaged animal.

I need something. Something to do.

Angrily, he stopped right in front of the wall. "I need something to DO!" Sherlock screamed the last word and thrust his fist into the wall in front of him, causing nothing but a dull thud and a throbbing pain in his knuckles.

Panting, he threw off his dressing gown and got dressed. Black trousers, white shirt, coat. He was already out the door when he turned around, grabbed his blue scarf and tied it around his neck.

Stepping out into the brisk night air, Sherlock instantly felt calmer, though still bursting with energy. He needed something to channel his thoughts on and he hoped that the ever active streets of London might provide him with such a distraction, something to keep him from pondering on John, on Molly, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. On the life he'd lost.

There was this saying that you never know what you have until it's gone. Sherlock had known exactly what he'd had. He'd just never thought he'd lose it.

Shaking his head as if to dishevel the trains of thought that had started to form inside, Sherlock made his way through the streets of London; roaming the city without a specific goal in mind.

An outside observer would have described his countenance as stern and indifferent, bored almost but deep inside, Sherlock was burning for action.

This was it. He had promised he would leave. Although he reckoned he could get Harry to reconsider… No. She was right. He had to get back on his feet. But how, though? Where would he go? What would he do? He couldn't get a job, couldn't go back to living like an ordinary person. Not after the life he'd seen with Sherlock, teeming with excitement and thrill, no day alike another. How could he possibly go back to being…ordinary, normal?

The problem at hand, though, was that he had no idea where he'd spend the night. John didn't have friends- no close friends, anyway- and no money. Mrs Hudson probably wouldn't mind him sleeping in the apartment for a couple of nights but John knew he couldn't possibly go back there.

Harry had left for work and wouldn't be home until late that night so that gave him some time to think but at this point John just felt completely and utterly helpless.

Three hours and just as many cups of tea later, John had packed all of his things and made a resolution.