stillhastrustissues | (no subject)

[ John would say it had been a normal day, as far as days tended to go anymore. He was ever a man drilled into taking up a routine at the end of the day, and the past couple of years certainly hadn't been an exception.

Wake up, breakfast, work, lunch, work, home, dinner, telly, eventually bed. Maybe a date breaking it up a bit, a phone call to Harry, a cuppa with Mrs. Hudson. A drink out at a pub somewhere. There had been a very noticeable lack of insane runs across London or criminal rings to be broken up since Sherlock's death, of course, and he would be lying to say he didn't miss it (even worse if he were to say he never missed Sherlock- not that he really tried saying either). But at the same time he'd come around to a certain appreciation for the stability, the same vague sort of gratefulness he'd had when he first came home from Afghanistan. No real chances of trying to hold some poor bastard together with two hands and not enough bandages: no best friends jumping off of hospital roofs, except in the occasional nightmare (and those, at least, he could handle having).

And god, he hated it, hated everything dark and washed-out, hated having nothing worth doing when he'd been part of something that felt so important and lost it, twice in his life, but he was still here. He walked, he breathed, he talked, he could still smile and still laugh, because he was very much alive and planned on keeping it that way. He couldn't go back into the army, Sherlock Holmes was dead, and the universe didn't miss a beat because of it (the Earth kept going around the sun, the bills needed paying, he needed honest to god human company and to not drive himself mad thinking about why and how he could have stopped any of it).

People might say any number of less than complementary things about John Watson, for whatever reason they'd have, but they could never call him a coward.

It was hard. It slowly got easier. He held no expectations of getting fully over what happened, but he wasn't stupid enough to say his life was over. Less than what it was, maybe, but there was always a little something worth the effort (and maybe he went to bars a bit on the seedier side more often than he ought to, maybe he'd stopped a mugging or two as time passed, played a little bit of daring with London traffic when he needed to cross the street, but it was worth it. A little fresh air. Something exciting).

Today was not a particularly exciting day. The routine went entirely as normal, he spent his day looking over colds and ear infections with all good humor and patience. Chatted with a nice enough woman when he stopped to pick up milk- definitely wanted to call her this week, he feels like he'd like to get to know her. Steady routine, good old responsible John, coming home like he would on any other day. A few more grey hairs than he used to have, the start of shadows under his eyes from a bad night's sleep, but on the whole still very much as John Watson as he's always been.

This, of course, is typically where one includes "little did he know." ]

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Good enough. [ John takes Sherlock's hand without any hesitation, using it to pull himself up with a grimace. Straightens out his clothes, runs a generally futile hand through his hair, gathers up the clipboard from where it was dropped and stares down at it. Which might be a better tactic if he were bothering to actually read what's on it. ]

I'll have to talk to the front desk about leaving. Reschedule my appointments. [ Certainly not going to be happy to hear that much from him. He debates sounding put-out about this fact, but in all honesty just sounds distracted. That's what the day is, mindless to distracting in five minutes flat, Sherlock Holmes walking in and John Watson dropping everything to follow him back out.

It's frustrating. It's annoying. He's still going to do it without shouting this one time because he needs answers. Because he can't say "this is where I'm staying now, go wait for me," because for all he knows he's hallucinating. Be a terrible day to go mad. ]

_{[ His fingers curl around John's hand and he holds still, acting as the weight that'll help him to his feet. He lets go fairly quickly - as soon as John's steadily on his feet, and not for the first time in two years does Sherlock miss the confines of his coat. The natural habit of placing his hands into his pockets is forcefully ignored, and instead he leans up against the bed behind him, patiently waiting on John. ]}

No, it's done. _{[ Outwardly, he's every bit as calm as once might expect, but inwardly, oh, now that was another story entirely. His heart beats as quickly as it did the day he left John behind, so irrelevant or so he'd like to hope; a distant past, something he's come back from and intends to try and fix, but it's not all up to him. ]}

Are you ready?

_{[ The answer is plain, Sherlock's read it several times over, so why did he even bother to ask? ]}

More or less- what do you mean "no, it's done"? How done is "done"?

[ Do I still have a job, Sherlock, and I don't suppose you can deduce where I put my bloody cane while you're at it.

John naturally takes to the more important questions when more than one elects to crop up.

He could have outright answered with "yes", which was more accurate, but he feels a distinct and childish urge to make himself not desperate. ]

It's been taken care of.

_{[ There's a very gentle tilt of the head, something that says come on without so many words. He scoops down and picks his cane up, holding it out without another word on the matter.

He even manages to keep his expression steady, despite how entirely unimpressed he is with John's returning psychosomatic limp. ]}

[ John will definitely award points in Sherlock's favor for that much- because the look on his face is one very shameless advertisement for not a word, please.

He'll follow along readily enough with that, of course, but questions are not out of the picture. ]

You do know you can't just pull someone out of work problem-free and only give a vague excuse?

Yes. I also happen to know that it takes a lot of persuading for someone to take over another GP's shift, not to mention a ridiculous amount of paperwork which allows you the rest of the week off. There are no strings left untied.

_{[ Sherlock takes his moment of explanation to lead John through the clinic, offering a quick smile towards the receptionist (practically works for him, like the majority of this clinic), until he barely pauses before the automatic doors. Once they open up, Sherlock marches towards the waiting taxi a few mere feet away. ]}

It helps when most of the people here owe me a favour or three. Do keep up, John.

Well, excuse me for falling out of practice. [ But he doesn't sound all that sore about it, not really. Not today. Today he just wants to get into a taxi, have tea with his dead best friend in his flat, pretend he doesn't feel like walking next to him with a cane officially removes most dignity from his person, and then very likely sleep it all off.

Which, apparently, he'll have the week to do around... whatever exactly Sherlock wants him for. ]

You're not excused.

_{[ It's shock. He's taken John into consideration this time - actually, he's done nothing but think about how this day might go, from John's reactions to the weather, of all things.

And perhaps it's not going as smoothly as it could be, but it's better than some of the scenarios Sherlock had thought up. Once John's in the car, Sherlock informs the driver of John's address (yes, he knows where you live, John) and then settles back into his chair. He finally takes the time to give John a proper once over. ]}

Shocking.

[ On the matter of John's proper once over there is enough to say. Military posture, tight hold on his cane handle, head turned to look out the window but all his awareness very focused on the car's interior. It was look out the window or blatantly stare at Sherlock through the whole ride, and he imagines he'll be doing enough staring over tea.

Lost a little weight, a bit more by the way of grey hairs, in the middle of one of those bouts of bad sleep nights that everybody comes by now and again. Does his shopping, does his work, hasn't been sick, not currently in a relationship, drinks but not heavily, on... moderate speaking terms with his sister. Uncomfortable and confused at current, which is probably to be expected.

Healthy and hodgepodged together into one working piece, on the whole. ]