When Sherlock died John went to New Zealand. Why not? He had always wanted to go but there was always something stopping him. Work, girlfriends, cases, money… But there was nothing now. He was unemployed and too depressed to get another job, girlfriends was not really on the table anymore for reasons best left alone, cases was not an issue since he had almost no deductive skills whatsoever and money had proven to be of no concern since Mycroft, the bastard, apparently kept his account at a stable level without consulting John. He resented the fact that he relied on the man who had betrayed Sherlock, but thought that he could at least use the situation to his favour, it wasn’t as if Mycroft would really miss the money John spent on the ticket to New Zealand, but hopefully the expense would at least annoy him slightly.
John smiled a weary smile as he sat down on a rock, watching the sun set over a distant hill. He had wandered about the wilderness for several months now, only approaching towns when he needed to stack up on food. He usually slept under the stars, or under trees if the weather was bad, but he had found a small grassy mound in a lovely field, and he had started to dig out a sort of cave, or tunnel in it, supporting the roof and walls with branches from a nearby tree, a real giant. The nearest town was only a couple of miles away, and he had bought the field from the farmer at a very expensive price, more than the farmer had asked for in fact (he was still trying to piss of Mycroft). In a couple of months he had built a wonderful little house in the mound, with a round, bright green door. Life was good, the sun was shining, he had taken up smoking pipes, in honour of his favourite book character. He only wished that Sherlock was there to enjoy it with him.
Part two: In which Sherlock the Wizard knocks on the door and suprises John with his aliveness, his ginormous beard and his thirteen beardy little homeless guys.