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Black cars.

How John hated black cars.

Every day, at some point he would be looking out of a window, or crossing a road, or walking home and he would see it- the black car.

Most days it would just sit in his peripheral vision, but occasionally it would glide alongside him or pull up outside the hospital, and the door would open for him to get inside.

Once, just once, he refused. He woke up next morning to find Mycroft standing over him, looking sternly down as he lectured the doctor about being sociable.

John was gobsmacked. Sociable? If he hadn't been half asleep he would have returned the diatribe with interest, but by the time he had shaken the somnolence from his brain the interfering git had gone, promising to see John soon.

All in all, two years on John felt he was coping well. He had his job at St Mary's, and gave the occasional lecture in field trauma surgery at Guy's Hospital medical school. He had moved back into 221B, and had even made his peace with Greg Lestrade. Time hadn't healed, but in a small way he had made his peace with his fate. Yes, he was coping well.

But still the black cars haunted him. Their presence had the ability to make John's day bad.