The anger and the joy, the disbelief and the triumph, have all slowly vanished. It took much less time than John expected for their routines to align and even less time for it to become a burden. He'd lived for three years without Sherlock at Baker Street (against his therapist's wishes mind you) and though many of Sherlock's things had remained with him, many more had seen their time come, pass, and begin again housed in boxes down in the basement.

For the plethora of books and experimentation instruments to suddenly take over the flat again had been trying on John's nerves since their reemergence.

There had also been the issue with sleeping arrangements. John had moved into Sherlock's room on the second floor while he was gone. It hadn't been a problem until it was and, though he smiled the whole time and profusely thanked the powers that be that Sherlock managed to get out from Moriarty's plans alive and safe, he'd not appreciated being regulated to the attic again.

He'd forgotten the little things too. Sherlock mixed solutions in his favourite tea cup. He stored cremains in the freezer. He lamented his own genius on the floor in the middle of the living room while John had a date over.

All of these things might have been liveable if John's relationships didn't start to suffer. If his private medical practice wasn't suffering. Or if he could trust Sherlock not to leave him again. Every little thing has started to eat at John from shopping at Tesco's for milk to Sherlock's propensity to disappear for great lengths of time.

John really can't handle that last bit. The worry creeps in each time he returns home to find the flat empty and it keeps on growing as hours start to progress further and further around the clock. Eventually, a quarter of a bottle of scotch in him, John simply passes out. It's not the first time lately that Sherlock's come home to find John in this sad state.

And it likely will not be the last.