Chapter Three

Managing

John did manage. That was the word, wasn't it? He managed, and was, by now, quite good at it. He managed to get a cab after a few minutes of standing damply in the London rain, managed to find his keys while standing awkwardly on the doorstep because he'd forgotten to look for them in the cab where it was dry, managed to make himself a late-night cup of tea, and, after sorting through the clothes that had not risen up in rebellion while he was gone, he managed to make a start on the laundry as well.

As the washer hummed and sloshed in the corner, he filled the laundry hamper again with the things from his backpack and the airplane-smelling clothes he was wearing. It was harder not to dwell on the fact that the last time he had dressed - and undressed - was in Sherlock's company, with Sherlock doing the exact same thing, but John managed that too, in the end. It was easier to fish out the little knickknacks he'd bought for Mrs. Hudson without feeling guilty that he hadn't got his new landlady so much as a keychain. In his dressing gown, he arranged the souvenirs in a handy paper bag while his tea cooled on the kitchen table.

And, having done that, he managed not to use that as a flimsy excuse to rush back to 221B, based on the thinner reasoning that Mrs. Hudson wouldn't appreciate being woken up at 2 in the morning, souvenirs or no souvenirs. He made himself another cup of tea.

Yes. He muddled through. He coped. He managed.