John didn't have much to pack up.

The move to 221b Baker street would be an easy one. He figured he would just throw his few possessions that weren't in storage into a box, grab a cab, then throw the box in the corner of his closet at 221b.

Of course, it never worked out that way. Because the gun, a gun he wasn't supposed to actually have, left the night before he actually sat down to pack up the box destined to spend the rest of its life in a closet. (The rest of its life? Was he really planning to stay that long? With a man they called a psychopath, yet insisted he was only a high functioning sociopath. Which was bullocks, but...)

The gun he used to shoot the cabbie.

The gun that had been so important.

The gun he had looked at so many times as he pulled his laptop out of the drawer. He saw it when he put his laptop back in the drawer, after he had sat staring at it and failed to write a word.

It comforted him. It terrified him. It was a constant presence. It was patient. It waited until he needed it. Whatever he needed it for. Whatever.

So it was fitting that it was not just thrown in a box like his other possessions. Things that Harry had bought him, presents from when he was in the hospital. Meaningless things.

And the only other thing that was already at Sherlock's- their- flat was the cane.

It had just been tossed aside as he ran out to rescue Sherlock. It had been left at Angelo's while they chased after a cab they thought contained a murderer. Which it did, admittedly.

And it was just like that. He didn't need it anymore. The arrogant prick he had met only the day before, who somehow knew everything about him, was brilliant, bloody brilliant, unlike anyone he had ever, and John suspected, would ever, meet, had cured him.

Two constants in his life. Already at the flat he would be sharing with this brilliant and terrifying man. Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective.

John suspected his therapist would have a lot to say about that. But screw her. Because Sherlock had managed to do what she and the multiple physical therapists failed at. He had fixed John.

So while John was normally a very calculating man, patient to a fault, which had served him well in Afghanistan, for some reason he could not explain, and yet the mysterious man, who had turned out to be Sherlock's brother (figures) had picked up on, John was diving headfirst into this new life.

It was terrifying. It was probably stupid. It was exhilarating. It made him feel alive.

So perhaps that prat Mycroft was right. He needed this excitement.

And that's exactly what he told himself as he carried his box out to the waiting cab, intending to throw it and his cane into the back of his closet at their flat. John Watson's and Sherlock Holmes' flat.