He didn't really want to go out.
He did, of course, he went to work, he paid his social calls with somber punctuality. It was the only thing that kept him sane, to have some sort of fixed schedule.
He wasn't happy, they all knew that, but they never mentioned him.
The second year it went worse.
John didn't know what was the point anyway.
Having a steady girlfriend, working and paying the bills. He tried it.
It just wasn't enough.
Nothing was ever enough.
It wasn't his life.
His life had ended with Sherlock's.
So he started going to the pub.
He couldn't really let himself be an addict.
But he was always there, drinking his beer and observing people.
He imagined what Sherlock would say about them, and he fooled himself to believe that he didn't need anything else.
He didn't socialize, and the only time he did talk to someone, it was only to start a fight.
It was the same that day.
When a tall bloke stupidly picked up a fight with a bigger lad, John's eyes were on him.
He had no idea who was to blame, but the big guy had a friend now, and he didn't think it was fair game.
"Guys, two against one is not nice at all," he intervened.