In the two years Sherlock hadwas gone, John had refused to go back to the way he once was. The normality of life, the boring quality tinting every moment - if he couldn’t stand it after the war, it was unbearable now. People looking at him, trying to console him like they knew him or what he felt. The fame hadn’t helped.
This was why, when Mycroft approached him with the job, he took it immediately, not even looking inside the file until he had got back to the flat. There were photos, his targets already picked out, a plane ticket lodged between various text-filled pages, as well as a passport, with his face but not his name impressed on the paper.
The flight left the next day, and for two years John didn’t look back, refusing to acknowledge the grave which sat next to his own, a proud name in the same lettering chiseled into the stone for anyone to see. He kept his eyes straight ahead, anticipating every movement, every breathless punch, every wound he would inflict with nothing in his heart.
John had closed himself off from his body’s actions: his hands, the ones which had shot so many, were no longer his own. Everything blurred into one thought - it was all just transport.
After two years, he was vaguely aware that he had done some form of good, tracking down villain after villain, until they had learned to fear the man with the dead eyed smile. After two years, he knew he could stop.
For no reason other than pure stubbornness, he returned home, searching for anything to make him human again as he reentered the flat for the first time in far, far too long. He found it in the form of an old accquaintance, who had quietly nestled into his favourite black chair, fiddling with a violin.
When John spoke, he felt something return to him, something which he thought he had lost indefinitely.
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