in its place.

After exactly one month of living in the billet, John finds a flat for rent in Kensington -- not quite as central as he’d have preferred (or as he’s grown accustomed to, let’s be real) and bloody expensive, too, but the place is nice, newly renovated and with that third floor view of Kensington Gardens that is really kind of priceless, if you look at it that way.

With Khan’s help, moving is pretty much a breeze -- the man can carry what would normally require the help of a dozen strong guys, so John’s out of the barracks and into an actual home in the matter of two days, four flights of stairs be damned.

The flat isn’t big, mind you, one bedroom, one tiny kitchen, one slightly less tiny bathroom and a narrow as shit sitting room -- with just enough space for his armchair and a bookcase.

At least the windows are big.

The first night, he cooks steak with mashed potatoes for Khan and himself, retreating to his new bedroom pretty soon after finishing the meal. Khan tags along which is quite the relief, since John -- you know, needs him.

The second night after the move, he’s alone, Khan preparing for a mission and John walks restlessly around the place with Sherlock’s violin case in one hand, not sure what to do with the thing. Display or store-away? Eventually -- and rather late in the evening, too, the neighbours are going to hate him, he nails up a shelf and places the violin case there, open, its contents looking archaic, as if belonging to another time.

Which, in some way, supposedly it does.

John sleeps well that night.

tumour in your humour, bags under your eyes.

[ An entire convoy has been derailed west of London, the medic's jeep among them. North Yorkshire is lacking half their crew now and they won't make it till the start of the exercise, might even take them a few days to get there. We can shuffle the teams to balance things out, but we desperately need an extra medic, Watson. Can we come pick you up by chopper? We've postponed till tomorrow, so you'll have 12+ hours to settle in.

You're tough, you can do it, they're implying. John walks into the small kitchen of his new, equally small flat where he left Khan just a few minutes ago, before the Lieutenant-General called him for help. He looks the man over while Hawkins continues his flatter, the idea a very spontaneous thing -- maybe just the inclination, really, not to leave Khan behind, simply because John's suddenly needed for gameplay by the morning. Besides, it could prove fun for him. For them, in the plural. They've been leading a quiet life the past couple of days and it seems to sit equally well (equally badly) with them both.

He tells Hawkins that he might have a guy who can cover for at least a handful of missing North Yorkshire Toms, not breaking eye contact with Khan for a second while saying so. You've got someone that good at Albany Street, the Lt Gen asks.

No, says John, but SAS does.

Hawkins tells him to call back when he knows, they'll prepare a cabbie in the meantime. John confirms and hangs up, putting the phone on the counter while crossing over to the small kitchen table, leaning over it with his hands on the edge, raising a slow eyebrow at Khan. The man's like a cat, he probably heard every word, nevertheless John comments: ]

Listen, I've been summoned. Military exercise at Otterburn tomorrow, zero five hundred.