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John's opening his mouth to say "who'd want me for a flatmate" when his phone rings. He sighs, exasperated. There's only one person who has this number. The phone may not be new, but it's new to him, and more importantly- who does he have to talk to? Old friends like Mike, maybe, but Afghanistan's changed something, reached inside of him and reshuffled his parts permanently. He can't connect with them anymore.
They don't know what it's like to press your hand against someone's broken body and pray pleasepleaseplease don't let me fail them, they don't know what it's like to hold a gun in your shaking hands and hope to God you won't have to use it, they don't know what it's like to shoot, kill, and realize it's not that horrible at all, it's just squeezing a trigger and then you're safe, free, and it's worth killing someone else for that. He'll never be able to forget any of those things, they're a part of him. Those memories have buried themselves deep inside of him, changing him forever. Who'd want that in a flatmate?
It's Harry on the other end of the line, he knew it would be. John waves a hand in Mike's general direction, excusing himself, even though the other man looks like he wants to say something. More small talk, he's sure. More awkward conversation exchanged merely because that's what old friends do when they run into each other in the park. I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at? What happened? I got shot. There's no part of this conversation that he needs to have, and he dismisses whatever Mike's next comment would be as nothing important.
Nothing important. Is there anything important left anymore? The world looks so gray and brown lately. Boring. Ella says it's PTSD, he'll get over it, he can soldier on. He listens and nods and quietly thinks 'what for?' He has nothing to move on to. There's nothing.
Harry's drunk, and crying, and she wants to meet him in person and talk. He doesn't want to talk to her. Not about the drinking, not about Clara, not about how sorry she is that she's messed up her life this way, how she wants to fix it. They've been down this path before. Harry will quit drinking just long enough to lull everyone into hope, and then just when John's starting to believe maybe, maybe this time she'll quit for real- that's when she'll relapse. Addicts always do.
But she did just give him a phone, and she seems to genuinely miss him. And there's no one else anyway. John sighs, agrees, and excuses himself from Mike. Whatever the other man was about to say is left behind as John calls a cab, and gives him the address to Harry's house.
x
Sherlock's bored. Mrs. Hudson's out, there aren't any new cases, and his violin is all the way across the room. His arms itch, and his mind turns to the cocaine, hidden where Lestrade can't find it on one of his obnoxious and invasive drugs busts. He's been clean for years, but God, everything's so dull. Aren't there any murders? Serial killers? He'd even take a robbery. He just needs something, anything, excitement, adrenaline, and a chance to prove himself- and to be worth something, his mind whispers, achingly pedestrian for a moment, but he ignores that treacherous thought. There's no room for self doubt and sentiment. Both of those equate to weakness, and he is not weak, even as his hands ghost over his veins, and he imagines the bite of a tourniquet and the sting of a needle.
He needs a case. But there isn't one. There's silence in the flat, and nothing to distract him from himself. Sherlock's already scared off three flatmates, and it doesn't really matter, because he didn't like any of them anyway. What does he care if none of them could stand him, if they all ran the other way as soon as they got to know him? It's nothing new. A few casual deductions, and experiment or two, and they're gone. Fine. He likes having the flat to himself. He can collect more accurate data on his experiments without someone messing them up halfway through.
Sherlock rolls off the couch and sulks over to his laptop, automatically logging onto his website. Nothing. No one needs him to solve anything for them. The news, maybe. There has to be a case somewhere, and if it won't come to him, he'll seek it out.
He skims the new, making an impatient sound at some of the more ridiculous articles. Celebrity A caught having an affair with Celebrity B. Please, he can tell from just their stances in the photo that that's far from true.
Onto the more interesting articles. There are deaths everywhere, but none of them are interesting. Sherlock reads the obituaries, searching for a case in the mess of car crashes and old age. Sixteen year old girl, junior in high school, alcohol poisoning. Boring. Thirty seven year old male. Former army doctor. Suicide. Sherlock sighs, and closes his laptop. Dull.