John marched briskly through the cooling air of the late evening, his thoughts scattered about.
Each one led him to another spark of anger.
Anger at Moriarty for starting this whole mess.
Anger at Sherlock for not telling him he was alive.
Anger at Mycroft and Molly and Lestrade and whoever the fuck else that knew that Sherlock was alive for not giving him some sort of clue.
But mostly, anger at himself for the sense of betrayal that laid heavily across his chest.
That's what it all boiled down to in the end, really.
He felt betrayed.
"Which", he reasoned, kicking at pebble in his path, "is utterly ridiculous, as he said himself that it was too keep me safe."
What really seemed to claw at him though, was that it had not been him Sherlock had called on for aide.
Instead it had been Molly.
He wasn't jealous of Molly, not in the least.
The woman was a good friend, who had cared for him throughout these past three years as best as she could.
He could not find it in himself to hold a grudge against her for withholding information from him.
Sherlock had been the one to ask that of her, after all.
As for the fact that Sherlock had lived with her instead of coming to him.
"What if something had happened there?"
"For the sake of law and order I suggest you avoid all future attempts at a relationship, Molly."
John thought back to the dismal track record of Molly Hooper, comparable only to his own.
Even if something had happened there, between the man he loved and Molly Hooper, he could not fault the woman.
He stopped at the thought, all the breath leaving him as it curled around the edges of his consciousness.
What if Sherlock had been with someone else, be it Molly or another, while he was supposedly dead?
The though clawed at the former doctor's chest, nesting there heavily.
A green eyed monster with claws of dread.
Could he blame him?
Yes, Sherlock knew John was alive.
No, Sherlock had no idea if John would ever take him back, or if he would come back for that matter.
Maybe?
The uncertainty of the the thought had him placing himself on the nearest bus stop bench, his arms wrapped around himself as he contemplated the situation.
Sherlock had changed, that much was clear.
He was more emotive.
More human.
In ways that John had only seen when the man was engaging in his ritualistic post-coital cuddling.
He was more pliant.
Having bent to each and every whim the former doctor had had.
If it weren't for the way he had been attempting his former dry witticisms- coupled with the fact that only Sherlock could taste like Sherlock- John would have dismissed him as a duplicate.
A doppelganger fashioned in his image to further destroy what was left of John Watson.
What then, did this mean for him?
For them?
Could he adjust to the new Sherlock, or would the detective revert back into himself the longer he was home.
Had the former doctor changed too much for his detective to take him back?
Was he too broken?
The sound of bus doors opening roused the blogger from his seat, and had him once more wandering the streets of London.
Broken.
The word floated around him.
Darkness fell as John aimlessly meandered about, his mind sorting through his tangled emotions as he sifted for a solution to the return of his flatmate.
"What I need," He muttered quietly, "is to listen to him. Properly hear him out, so that I can get a good grasp on what is going on here. Where we stand."
The doctor pulled out his phone- a standard burn phone that he had picked up shortly after throwing his Mycroft-issued one into the Thames- and scrolled through his contact list, with the intent of messaging Sherlock.
He froze, a pained laugh ripping it's way from his throat.
He didn't have a number for the consulting detective.
Sherlock was dead.
The phone suddenly let out a series of ominous beeps, before the screen flickered to black, the battery dying.
"Fucking hell."
He pocketed the phone and nearly screamed at the sky in frustration.
That was when he noticed just how late it was.
How tired he was.
How cold.
The former doctor peered around, trying to gain his bearings on where he had ended up.
The result of the search was John absolutely confirming that he hod managed to get himself irrevocably lost.
He groaned, stepping to the curb in search of a cab, when he remember that his wallet was in it's place.
On the mantel.
At Backer Street.
The next logical step was to ask for a phone, or some change for a payphone, but was met with many a, "piss off." and "fuck you."
Resigning himself to having to find his way back, John spun around, resolutely marching in what he hoped was the general vicinity of home.