In retrospect, he really should have seen it coming. Not that he was going to complain. Not much, anyway.

1 December

It was nearly midnight when John Watson turned his key in the lock and opened the street door of 221B. The building was quiet - Mrs. Hudson had gone to bed long ago - and he was careful to tread lightly on the stairs. She was still unused to the odd hours he worked. So was he, though he would never admit as much to anyone. He needed the money and the occupation of time, and it gave him something better to think about.

Well, mostly better.

He let himself into the flat and flicked on the lights before pulling off his coat and hanging it on the rack by the door. He unwound the scarf from his neck and hung it there as well, and then crossed the room to turn on the television. He flicked through the channels until he found one with 24-hour news and parked it there before heading to the kitchen. He put the kettle on, pulled a cup from the cupboard, and opened the canister he kept the tea bags in.

He turned to lean back against the counter and sighed, willing the tension to drain from his shoulders. Coming off a twelve-hour shift was never easy, and tonight he'd barely had a break. It was fulfilling work, though, and he knew he was good at it. He'd always had a calming bedside manner, and tonight it had been put to the test half a dozen times as multiple car accident victims had been brought in. He couldn't think about anything other than the work on days like this, and that was a good thing. He needed the distraction.

Coming back to the flat was a relief in some ways, the quiet wrapping itself around him and pulling him back down to reality. The television, rarely used for background noise until the last few months, was a comforting presence. He tried to focus on the news anchor's voice across the room, reading the day's headlines, most of which seemed to center around the Duchess of Cambridge's pregnancy.

That was when he saw it. He wondered how he'd missed it for the full two minutes he'd been in the flat; his observational skills had clearly slipped in the last few months. Stress and sleep deprivation did that to a person. Sherlock would be – would have been – disappointed.

He crossed to the kitchen table and examined the clear plastic box that sat on the far edge. The mouse encased inside stared back at him with nervous black eyes, its nose twitching. It was almost cute.

"So you're the one who's been getting into the pantry, are you?" John tapped the plastic trap with a finger and the mouse startled. It scurried back and forth in its tiny cage for a moment before settling down again and watching him warily.

Mrs. Hudson must have set the trap after he mentioned the mouse last week. How like her to use one of the humane ones. He'd have to work out what to do with it, though. He supposed he could set it loose in Regent's Park in the morning, let nature take its course. He couldn't remember if he'd seen any raptors there, but at least it would have a hard time finding its way back to his flat.

The kettle clicked off, drawing his attention. He poured the cup and settled on the sofa, leaving the mouse in limbo for now. He'd take care of it tomorrow after a good night's sleep.

Well – after some sleep, anyway. Good no longer covered it.

2 December

The mouse had been easy enough to release. It scurried away into the hedges the moment he opened the tiny door, vanishing from sight before he'd even registered it had leapt from the trap.

He had lunch at a local Indian spot, one he'd been avoiding for sentimental reasons. The server was new and didn't know him at all, didn't know who he was or what had happened to him. There was no sympathetic smile or knowing pats on the arm, nor any furtive glances from the other patrons. He was simultaneously grateful and annoyed.

It wasn't as if he wanted to be treated like a grieving widow, after all – it hadn't been like that, no matter what everyone seemed to think. But the story had vanished far more quickly than John had anticipated, and he couldn't help but feel a pang of sorrow that Sherlock's star had faded so quickly. It was as if John was the only one who remembered him.

He pushed the food around on his plate for a while before giving up and paying the bill.

He'd volunteered to cover someone on the night shift, so he headed home and forced himself to lie down for a few hours. He dozed and might have slept – it was hard to tell when his dreams were about lying there awake – and finally roused himself a few hours before midnight to take a shower and eat a sandwich.

At first, the large brown envelope on the kitchen table didn't catch his attention. He walked past it at least twice before he realized he couldn't remember seeing it earlier. He picked it up and unfastened the clasp, but it was empty. He turned it over and examined it, but there were no markings of any kind.

He shrugged and dropped it onto a pile of unopened post on the counter, then pulled on his coat and headed downstairs.

3 December

He slept most of the day after arriving home midmorning. The sun had already set before he forced himself awake. It was relatively early, but at this rate his sleep cycle would be completely fucked. The night shift hadn't been a complete wash, though; he'd had a chance to chat up one of the other new doctors, a woman named Sylvia with a lovely smile and bright green eyes. He hadn't asked her out just yet, but she seemed like she might be agreeable to the idea.

His next shift was the following morning, so he needed to have a decent meal and try to get back to sleep by midnight. He turned the television on again and frowned at the selection. So many channels, yet nothing to watch. Was he up for Eastenders tonight? Perhaps not.

He headed to the kitchen to put the kettle on and stopped in the doorway. There was a coil of rope placed neatly on the edge of the table, the soft cotton kind that he'd used to practice tying knots on the occasional weekends his uncle had taken him and Harry boating when they were kids. He picked it up from the table and unfurled it: it was at least two yards long.

He frowned. It must be Mrs. Hudson's, though he couldn't for the life of him think of what she might use it for. The kettle clicked off; he re-coiled the rope and set it back on the table.

4 December

It was late when he climbed the stairs after his shift. A cold front had come through and brought freezing rain with it, and the walk home from the Tube stop was fairly miserable. John switched on the lights and crossed to the kitchen to set the bag of Chinese takeaway on the table.

The bag promptly fell over onto its side, and he swore under his breath as he plucked it from the table to right it again. He'd set it right on the coil of rope.

He frowned. He'd taken the rope downstairs with him that morning before he left. Mrs. Hudson hadn't answered when he knocked, so he'd left it on the foyer table, hoping she'd see it. Apparently she had done and had brought it straight back up. Did she think it was his? His forehead furrowed even more: was it his? He couldn't remember buying a length of rope in the last year or so. It was typical of the odd sort of thing Sherlock would have had lying around, though the flat had been scoured of everything of Sherlock's in the months following his death.

John swallowed and traced the coil of rope with his fingers. Maybe it was Sherlock's and Mrs. Hudson had found it in her flat. Perhaps she was returning it. His fingers tightened around the rope for a moment and he closed his eyes.

Shit.

These small moments of grief never ceased to surprise him. He thought he was fine, that he was done with it all, that he'd moved on, and then something as innocuous as a fucking piece of rope would appear and shatter the illusion of healing. He knew what the books said, that it took up to a year to emerge from the depths of bereavement when mourning the loss of a… He still didn't know what label applied.

He coiled the rope more tightly and shoved it into a drawer in the kitchen, out of sight.

5 December

"Mrs. Hudson?"

She'd always said to come right in if the door was unlocked, but he still didn't feel comfortable with that level of informality. He remained awkwardly in the doorway and listened.

"Do come in, dear. I'll be right there."

He closed the door behind him and stood near the kitchen table. This flat hadn't changed a bit in the last six months. It was a bit like stepping back in time, to a time when his life was… different. He'd cleaned out his own flat, rearranged furniture, stripped away all traces of Sherlock. He didn't want to be reminded on a daily basis. It was the only way he'd been able to stay there.

Mrs. Hudson came into view at last, apron tied around her waist and hair all frizzy. She beamed at him and gestured to a chair. "Sit down, dear. I'll put the kettle on."

John hesitated, but he had no good reason to refuse. He shrugged after a moment and sat while she busied herself with the kettle.

"It's lovely of you to stop by, John. I don't see much of you these days."

He smiled. "I'm working a lot of odd hours. I enjoy it, though."

She set two cups on the table along with the sugar bowl and settled in the chair opposite him. "You do seem to be getting on well."

He smiled and looked down at his hands. "Do I?"

"You always did like a bit of excitement, didn't you? I suppose a heart attack victim isn't as thrilling as a serial killer, but it's something."

John grinned. "I suppose so."

The kettle clicked off and she stood and crossed to it. He watched her pour hot water into the pot and waited until she was seated again before he pulled a small ball of purple yarn from his pocket and placed it on the table between them. "I believe this is yours."

"Oh, goodness, so it is." She picked it up and examined it. "I'm doing a bit of knitting for Christmas, you know. I must have dropped it in the foyer."

"Actually, you left it upstairs, in the flat."

"Did I? Goodness, I'm scattered lately. I don't recall taking it upstairs." She frowned at the yarn.

John smiled. "It's quite all right. I don't mind. Besides, it gave me a reason to come down for tea, didn't it?"

Mrs. Hudson set the yarn aside and beamed at him. She lifted the lid of the teapot and glanced inside before pouring him a cup. "Well then, tell me all about A&E. Is it as exciting as it looks on telly? Life and death decisions, blood spurting about, that sort of thing?"

John laughed. "Sometimes. But without all the romance, unfortunately."

She spooned a lump of sugar into her tea and winked at him. "Well, if you're looking to meet another nice doctor, I suppose you're in the right spot, aren't you?"

He laughed, a bit half-heartedly. "I suppose so."

7 December

He hadn't looked at the table when he got home from his shift. He'd gone straight to the shower, then changed clothes, and had really only glanced into the kitchen on his way out the door.

There had been nothing on the table the day before, no random object left there for him to puzzle over, and so he'd reckoned he was correct, that it had been Mrs. Hudson leaving things on the table for him the last few days.

But tonight there was something new waiting for him there: a box of condoms. Condoms, really? He picked up the box and frowned. He hadn't told Mrs. Hudson that he had a date tonight, and even if he had, he couldn't quite wrap his brain around the idea of her picking up condoms along with the shopping and leaving them discreetly on the kitchen table for him to find.

He'd mentioned it to a few people, though – to Greg, for one, in response to a text asking if he wanted to meet at Greg's local that evening for a pint or three. He'd texted back that he had a date, and Greg had responded with a rather naughty and off-color remark that roughly translated to good luck, mate.

John grinned. Greg must have sent the condoms as a joke, and it was just a coincidence that they were placed on the table in the same spot as the things Mrs. Hudson had left behind. If Mrs. Hudson had brought them up, it even made sense.

He opened the box and pulled out one foil packet, turning it over in his fingers. It was just a first date. He liked Sylvia, and she seemed to like him, but it wasn't as if he really expected the evening to end that way. Not that he would complain if it did – he hadn't got a leg over in an embarrassingly long time – but he supposed it didn't hurt to be prepared. He stuck the condom in his back pocket and headed down the stairs.

"And it was such a lovely cottage, really, right by the seashore, and the weather was perfect the entire time. I don't suppose you've been?"

John forced a smile. "No, we didn't – I haven't been on a proper holiday in… God, I don't know how long."

Sylvia's gaze bore into him for a moment before she looked away. "You're not ready for this, are you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Have you any idea how many times you've said we in the last hour? I won't pretend to know what it's like, to have lost someone like that, but I have a friend from uni whose husband died of cancer a few months ago. It's been so hard for her."

"No, no, it's not – I mean, I'm fine, I am." He didn't bother protesting it anymore. Everyone thought they'd been a couple, and he'd come to terms with the fact that they actually were a couple in a way, even if not in the traditional sense. He'd long ago stopped trying to correct everyone's assumptions about what else might have happened between them.

"You don't have to explain."

"I know I don't. I just…" He shrugged. "I need to get on with my life, you know? This is me trying. To move on."

She sighed and set her wine glass down next to her empty plate. "I do like you, John."

Oh God, here it was, then. "But."

There was a pained expression on her face. "But I'm not up for this. My life is complicated enough with Noah and I can't start anything that I'm not reasonably confident is going to work out. He's just five years old, and it's not fair to him to have men coming in and out of his life like that." She paused and shook her head. "As if looking for a friend and lover weren't enough, I have to consider him as well."

"I can imagine."

She pulled her phone from her handbag and tapped at the screen for a moment before handing it to him. The photo on the screen was of a small boy, smiling impishly from under a mop of ginger curls. There was a dusting of freckles across his tiny upturned nose, and his green eyes sparkled as he looked up at the camera.

John felt an inexplicable wave of sadness. "He's adorable. Is his father around? In his life, I mean." He handed the phone back to her.

Sylvia's expression hardened slightly, something he might not have noticed before spending a year and a half with Sherlock. "Yes, but it's still… We try to minimize the amount of time we see each other. Noah's with him this weekend." She tucked the phone back into her purse. "It's strange to be alone in the house. It's so quiet.

"I know what you mean." John pursed his lips. "I don't suppose you'd like to…" He stopped himself and looked away. "No, I'm sorry, that was… forget it."

She laughed. "Probably not a good idea. Or possibly a brilliant one, and I won't realize it until I'm lying in my bed alone tonight. But… no, I don't think so."

They talked another twenty minutes, and it was easy and relaxed now that they both knew it would be nothing more than this. She even laughed good-naturedly when the condom fell out of his wallet and landed in the middle of the table when he went to pay the check.

She shook his hand outside and said she'd see him at the hospital, and they took separate cabs home.

8 December

He was glad it had been an early night, in retrospect. His shift the next day was rough, and though the time flew by, it left him emotionally drained and physically exhausted. He stripped off his coat the moment he closed the door of the flat and headed to the kitchen for a beer. He popped off the cap on the counter and then downed half of it in one go.

He sighed and turned around. There was something sitting on the table in the usual spot. He crossed to pick it up.

It was a tube of hand lotion, a generic brand from Boots, nothing special. Underneath it was a slip of folded paper on which were printed the words, Since your date didn't work out, this might come in useful.

John's eyebrows shot up. He briefly contemplated shooting off a fuck you text to his favorite detective inspector, but of course, he didn't know for certain that it was Greg's doing. He hadn't said a word to anyone about how his date had gone, so how would Greg even know? Perhaps he'd assumed.

John settled on the sofa with the lotion in one hand and the beer in the other and sighed. God, he was tired. Too tired to wank, even. He dug his phone from his pocket and tapped out a text.

Still want to meet for a pint sometime?

The reply came before he finished his beer.

You off tomorrow night?

Yes

It's a date then. My local 8:00.

John's lips twisted into a smile. See you then.