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John kind of wishes he had people he talked to regularly, if only so he could tell them that he'd talked to a woman named Sherlock Holmes. He imagines that if he had friends, they would be rather more impressed than the girl who's checking out his groceries in the store.
"Yeah, I went to one of her shows once. Wasn't very good."
"But you see, my name is John Watson," John explains.
The checkout girl doesn't bat an eye. "You should become platonic life partners and adopt a puppy named Gladstone," she suggests.
John frowns, considering it. "Somehow I don't think she'll go for that."
The checkout girl nods absently at him as she reads out the total he owes her. John winces as he hands over the cash; he should have done without the strawberries and gone with a cheaper cheese. He has a job, but it's not one that's doing much besides enabling him to make the rent. It's good it does that, though, since most of the time he likes having a place to live.
She hands him his change, and he flashes a smile automatically before turning to go, shifting the bag from the hand he'd automatically held out for it to his other hand so he can limp forward with his cane, towards what he's currently calling home.
He's slept worst places, certainly, but at least he had a reason for doing that, at least he was serving some purpose while he was doing that. He lets himself into his flat, not even bothering to flick on the lights before heading the kitchen with his food. There's not anything worth seeing in his flat anyway.