I still have the drabble I originally wrote yesterday, but then I realised that today is the anniversary of some big changes in John and Sherlock's lives. This seemed like a much more appopriate b-word.
What the hell have I gotten myself into? John finds himself wondering. Moving in with a pompous, incredible, garrulous, possibly insane, gorgeous man. Gorgeous? Where did that one come from... If you'd told John a week ago that he was about to meet the man who would change his life, that he was about to kill one civilian to save another, he'd have laughed at you.
He shakes his head, packing up the last of the possessions, such as they are. A duffel of clothing, his good suit in a garment bag. A box with a couple of books and his laptop laid carefully on top. He studies the pile of belongings and sighs. Is that really all there is to me at this point? A few paltry boxes?
His cane, leaning in the corner, catches his attention. It feels alien and unnatural that as of last night he no longer needs it. He deliberates a moment and collapses it, resting it against one of the boxes.
Am I making a huge mistake? He sets his mouth in a determined line. I can't be. I haven't felt this needed, this alive, since I got back.
A wry smile crosses his face as he hails a cab, deep blue eyes sparkling with excitement. Off, to 221-B Baker street. To a new beginning.