John sat in his cab to work with an uneasy feeling. This whole thing was a bad idea, the flat is only so big, Mrs. Hudson was bound to find him soon, or Sherlock would do something and wander out of the flat or run into her or one of their other friends and John can only imagine their reactions. With a stressed sigh, John sank into his seat and placed a hand over his face. The cabbie noticed his passenger's distress and asked, "What's the matter, mate? You and your girlfriend have a spat?"

John spread his fingers apart and glared through the little slit where his eye was showing.

"If only that was the case."

The cabbie knew that John's reply was his cue to shut up and continue driving, which he caught and focused on driving.

'Don't do something stupid Sherlock. I can't afford to rush our landlady to the hospital when I get back.'

John thought that taking care of his patients would distract his mind, but all it did was make it worse. There seemed to be an abundance of head-related injuries in the office today. Little kids crying and screaming, holding their heads, and the mothers who didn't know what the problem was because they were too busy worrying about their child's over exaggerated cries and trying to figure out a way to get them to stop. Or grown men and women who either fell and hit their head, or they just woke up with a headache and decided to drive all the way down here to hear what they already know. John wasn't even going to think about that one couple who both got head injuries because they wanted to try something…new…in their bedroom. Sometimes John wondered if everybody was just this stupid, or if there was a new virus spreading.

"That's because you're an idiot. Don't look at me like that, practically everyone is."

John remembered that from the conversation they had when they first met, during the suicide-murders. The awful time John went through after being released from service. The spiraling depression and loneliness he went through. The amount of times he looked at the handgun he had hidden in his drawer, thinking about all of the times he considered pressing it to his temple and pulling the trigger. He was going to do it that day, the day he ran into Mike Stamford and met Sherlock. He owes Sherlock so much; he saved his life in so many ways. The least John could do was try and save Sherlock as much as he could.

He wondered what Sherlock was doing at the moment, probably still watching crap telly, hopefully he wasn't screaming at the telly like he was so close to doing earlier. John played many scenarios in his head. He imagined coming home to find Mrs. Hudson standing in the living room, with Sherlock staring at her with his usual blank expression on, and the elderly woman looking like she's about to pass out. Or another image of Mrs. Hudson screaming her head off and Sherlock standing there looking equally surprised, hell he even imagined Sherlock trying to hush her and scaring her even more by placing his hand on top of her mouth and trying to shush her.

John couldn't help but laugh at that mental movie, but still, it would be preferable if none of that happened and John returned to find Sherlock sitting on his bed, maybe napping, which would be even better for John. Sherlock doesn't snore loudly, if at all, and even if Mrs. Hudson were to go up there she wouldn't hear anything, her hearing isn't as sharp as it might have been years ago.

John's message alert goes off on his phone, startling him a little bit. He fishes in his pocket and for a second thinks that it's Sherlock calling him, but it couldn't have been, he doesn't know John's number, and doesn't have his mobile on him. He threw it when he was on top of the….

'Can't think about that now….focus on right now, not in the past….'

He looked at his screen and saw that the message was from Molly.

"Hey John, been a while hasn't it? I know we've all had to deal with…that…day at St. Barts in our own way. I just want to know if you would…like to hang out sometime. I can understand if you're still upset about everything and say no, but I think it would help us if we actually talked to each other.

Anyway, feel free to say no, or yes. I'll leave you alone, sorry about my rambling.

-Molly xx"

John had half a mind to say no. He knew Molly meant well in her intentions, she always meant well. She was a nice girl who has a tendency to get pushed around by other people. But John felt like he didn't have the time to go and see Molly (or he just wanted to avoid all contact from all of his friends.) Sherlock still needed him, and John needs Sherlock. Though he has been thinking that maybe he should just drop him off at Mycroft for a while. Just until Sherlock could remember a few things or John could actually get his shit together and help his best friend.

No, that was selfish of John. Sherlock was the one who was suffering, even if he didn't know it. But wasn't John suffering too? To spend so long thinking that his dearest friend was dead, that he jumped to his death in front of him, only to find that he planned that whole thing and kept him out of the loop. John had to get a phone call from Mycroft, explaining that his brother wasn't dead, just partially alive, only to come to his home to find his amnesiac flatmate standing there looking as lost as a child. Didn't John have a say in this? Was he expected to just accept everything that's happened? Dismiss it all as a dream? Act like none of it never happened?

The sad thing about this was that, yes, he was. He's supposed to dance around his flat and do what he would normally do as if the "suicide" never happened and live his life. He was supposed to spend who knows how long hiding Sherlock from his friends, act like Sherlock was supposed to be dead, treat him like his and Mycroft's dirty secret. He felt bad for Sherlock. Who knows how he's feeling at the moment, being taken to an unfamiliar place and told to stay there with a stranger who says that you've always lived there, to struggle with remembering something as simple as a childhood birthday, and to be told that you can't leave a room until said stranger comes back. To be treated like a….well John didn't want to think of it this way, but he was being treated like an animal, a scared and confused animal, who probably couldn't even remember his name. John doesn't know what's more stressful at this point, the army or this. At least in the army, his only instructions were to heal, duck, and shoot if necessary. This, this was a whole new type of battlefield, a different kind of war.

Looking back down at his phone, he unlocked it and started typing back.

"Hey Molly, got your message. Sorry, can't hang out with you today. I'm going to be busy for a while at work so I don't know when I'll be free, I'll message you when I have a chance to grab a pint with you. Sound good?"

Almost instantly, he got a response.

"Oh that's alright, that was stupid of me to message you anyway. Have a good night John, and message me when your schedule clears up, kay?

-Molly xx"

John put his phone away and rested his chin on his hand.

"Whenever that'll be…."

He looked at his clock. Thirty minutes more and he'll leave and start job number two. It was just like he told Mycroft, there'll never be a dull moment, right?