after the final problem, the dynamic between sherlock and john has shifted forever. it's back to normal, or as normal as it can get for sherlock holmes and john watson. now with john being a single father, sherlock more than wants to do his part in...
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LIFE GOES ON. Or rather, it's supposed to. But things in John's life never really went the way that they were supposed to, and he'd learned to live with it. The Final Problem had come to pass, they were picking up the pieces of the aftermath, and Baker Street was due to begin its rebuild within the week. Things were good, or were supposed to be. Life was meant to move on, but yet.
But yet. John's life was filled with but yets, far too many for his liking. For example, he himself had a lovely daughter and a spacious house in the suburbs. Things were alright. But yet, but yet, he hated it. Every inch of this life he was struggling to maintain, he despised it to the very core. Not Rosie, never Rosie, but instead the false air of mediocrity that he gave off to all of the neighbors. It wasn't him, it was far from him, and what he wouldn't give to burn the entire place to the ground. John knew how good it would feel, how righteous he'd feel, but having the police called on him didn't seem like the brightest idea. So here he stayed, in the stupid house contained within the stupid neighborhood he hardly even liked, partially drowning in the memories of what this place used to contain.
The other side of the bed remains empty. No more blond curls sprawl across the pillows, and the other side of the closet is a hollow space. He'd given away most of Mary's things a few days ago, after he'd gotten back home and had a spare bit of time to recover from the horrifying experience in Sherrinford. He still kept a few, nestled away to keep for Rosie when she was older, but he himself knew how desperately he needed to let go. Mary no longer lingered around as a figment of his grief-addled brain, so he'd taken it as a sign. He'd felt lighter in the slightest.
Life went on. But no, it didn't, because there was another bump in the road, another hitch in his throat. There was Sherlock Holmes, there would always be Sherlock Holmes, and nothing about that fact had changed over the course of seven years. The last time he'd seen Sherlock had been when they'd parted ways once they were back in London, Sherlock in one cab and John in the other. He'd not received a call nor text from the detective in the days since, and that slightly worried him. Where was Sherlock, now that there was no Baker Street to return to? Why hadn't he reached out? Was he waiting for John to make the first move, considering they were still on thin ice after what had transpired after Mary's death?
That left him here, at 10:32 PM on a bloody Tuesday, feet wearing treads in the carpet of his sitting room as he paced back and forth in front of the coffee table. He'd put Rosie down for bed a few hours ago, but yet (there was another one of those but yets), he couldn't sleep. He hadn't really slept since after Mary died, and even after he'd reconciled with Sherlock after putting him in hospital. His mobile sat, motionless, on the coffee table, the very source of his internal debate. It was late, of course it was late, but a part of him was itching to at least try Sherlock, to reassure himself that Sherlock was alright. It'd been itching for days, but being manic on three cups of coffee at a late hour seemed to do the trick.
The mobile felt heavy in his palm, his fingers trembling in the slightest as he pulled up a fresh text thread, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. He might as well start off with a greeting, and leave it at that.
