A/N: I saw the cable-knit cardigan and the skirt in this very pretty photograph today, and was suddenly reminded of John Watson. It's been a month since The Reichenbach Fall aired, so I thought this was an appropriate thing to write. [ Photograph: www . flickr .com/photos/lauramakabresku/6871857859/ ]

THIRTY DAYS

Jean Hannah Watson sits in Charlotte's chair, moved by the window of 221 B, and watches the sun come out from behind a cloud. She's dug out the pack of cigarettes that she hid from Charlotte back in November, and she awkwardly fiddles an unlit one between her fingers, considering the minor miracle that her friend never found them.

"Jean, give me some, I need some."

"Nope."

"Give me some!"

"Charlotte. Leave it."

She spent all of yesterday lying on the couch, picking at Charlotte's violin, staring at the tattered smile on the wall. Mr. Hudson found her there shortly before lunch, but didn't scold her for showing up unannounced - only commented vaguely that he'd repaper the room as soon as he could figure out how to get the bullets out of the wall.

"What are you doing with my g... Charlotte, stop it!"

"Bored. BORED!"

"Tea, darling?" Mr. Hudson said, what felt like an hour later.

"You're not my housekeeper," Jean said automatically, but accepted a cup anyway.

When Shaun called to ask her if she wanted to go to dinner, the thought of Valentine's Day didn't even occur to her. She told him she wasn't feeling well. In retrospect, she should have gone out.

"Jean, I think you should know, I considered myself married to my work..."

"I wasn't... I didn't mean. No, no. It's just... It's all fine."

Her phone goes off several times in the next hour.

Lestrade: "Jean, if you want to get completely pissed give me a ring."

"Is that why you're calling yourself Geraldine, now? Hmm?"
"Char, that's her name."
"...What?"

Michelle: "Please ring me whenever convenient. C would want us to look after each other."

" Did she offer you money to spy on me?"
"Yes. I didn't take it."
"Jean, are you mad, we need the money. Think!"

Mal Hooper. "Jean, sweetheart, thinking about you."

"You can be such a cold bitch sometimes, did you know that? Why do I bother?"

"I'm sorry. Forgive me. Merry Christmas, Malcom Hooper."

Eventually Jean turns off her phone and throws it into a box on the coffee table.

"Oh my god... Charlotte, Mr. Hudson's been shot."

"I have more important things to worry about at the moment, if you don't mind."
"Right. More important. Like playing catch-chasey with a psychotic bint who's trying to kill you!"
"Precisely."

"Char... I... for god's sake... You machine..."

"You're upset."

"Brilliant, Char, bloody brilliant! You know - maybe I was wrong about you. Maybe I should just leave you to it. Alone."
"What else is there to do? Alone is what I have."

"Oh, SOD you. Friends protect each other, Charlotte. FRIENDS."

It's been a month, Since.

"Jean, no... back the way you – please -"

"Oh my god. Charlotte..."

"It's all true... I'm a fake."

"Stop it! Stop it, now!"

"Will you do this for me?"

"Charlotte, what's going on? Please tell me what's going -"

"Goodbye, Jean."

"CHARLOTTE!"

Around four-thirty in the afternoon, the sun comes out over Baker Street. Jean feels the swoop of terminal velocity in the center of her chest, squeezes her eyes closed against the image of Charlotte's bloodied empty face, and lights a cigarette.