This is a sequel to "Invictus". Several of my lovely readers have requested a fic describing our heroes' lives after Mary's untimely death. Here is what I imagined would happen.

000

"Invictus" by William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how straight the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul.

000

One night, three weeks after the funeral, John disappeared. Again.

Sherlock was not concerned. He and John were coping with Mary's death in the only way they knew: they had thrown themselves into The Work, keeping as busy as possible in order to ignore the empty space she had left in their world. Even the most tediously boring case was preferable to sitting in a flat that was permeated with reminders of her absence. Mary's spirit suffused every square inch of 221B Baker Street; Sherlock could almost hear her rummaging about in the kitchen or laughing on the stairs. He could almost feel her pat him affectionately on the head or kiss him on the cheek as she always used to do. Mary had loved him well, as only a sister could.

But if Sherlock missed Mary so entirely, how much more must John now feel bereft? He could not imagine it, and he felt he was intruding by even trying to imagine. John was a private man. If he needed to get away from Baker Street for a bit of a respite, Sherlock would not question it. Unable to concentrate on his work, he reflected upon the first time John had disappeared.

It had been the night before Mary's funeral. Mycroft had graciously made all the funeral arrangements—John and Sherlock needed only to attend. It was a mixed blessing—they were relieved not to have to do everything themselves, and yet it left them with nothing to occupy the heavy time on their hands. Sherlock had spent the afternoon in his mind palace, arranging the room Mary occupied. His inner-John was his moral compass, his conscience; his inner-Mary was his tutor in social interaction. John made Sherlock good; Mary made him human. He was grateful to them both, cherishing every interaction with them in his memory. However, because of this, he missed the fact that John had gone.

But then his phone interrupted his meditations. It was Angelo. "Sherlock, our little friend the doctor is here," the restaurateur said, sounding concerned. "He doesn't eat, he doesn't speak; he drinks and he sits. I worry about him. He has been here for hours."

Sherlock had walked the few blocks to Angelo's in record time and slid silently into the booth across from his friend. John was staring out of the window, a glass of wine in his hand. He was not drunk, but a substantial amount was missing from the bottle on the table. Angelo had thoughtfully brought him his usual, but the plate sat untouched. A slight shift of his position and a glance towards his friend was all the acknowledgement the grieving husband gave to Sherlock's arrival. The detective felt uncomfortably like an intruder, but sat quietly and waited, as Mary would have told him to.

"It's October 15," John spoke at last, so quietly Sherlock could hardly hear him. "Six years ago today, we came here for our first date." Sherlock could think of nothing to say to this, and so he wisely said nothing. Angelo brought another glass, and the detective helped himself to the bottle. Together they sat, watching the evening give way to midnight. And then they had walked wordlessly home. John had locked himself in his room and had wept until dawn, leaving Sherlock to pace restlessly about the flat, feeling utterly useless. It had been a difficult night.

Now he tried to immerse himself in his latest experiment and ignore the unendurable emptiness of the flat. He was not certain of when John had slipped out, but the silence his flatmate had left behind was unbearably loud. Then his phone signalled a text message.

John Watson has been standing at the rail of Westminster Bridge for almost two hours. Should we be concerned for his state of mind? MH

Leave him alone. He is not suicidal. SH

Nevertheless, Sherlock tried calling John's mobile immediately and was a bit alarmed when it went straight to voicemail. John rarely turned his phone off. Why would he do so now? Sherlock dressed quickly and rushed out to get a cab.

Spotting his friend in the darkness halfway across the bridge, Sherlock called for the driver to stop a good ways away. He paid the man and sent him on. Who knew how long this would take? No sense keeping the driver waiting. He approached his friend cautiously, as if creeping up on a wild animal, uncertain of his reception. It was immediately obvious by John's posture that he was not contemplating suicide. Rather than leaning over the rail looking into the murky depths of the Thames, he was resting his back against the rail, looking up at St. Stephen's Tower. Oddly, in spite of the fact that John was facing his direction, Sherlock's approach was ignored. The detective was unsure of what he was meant to do, now that he had arrived. Consulting his inner-Mary, he decided to settle himself against the rail beside his friend and wait in silence.

As he waited, he began to deduce the reason for John's behaviour. Standing on Westminster Bridge for hours in an early November chill staring at Big Ben was not a normal activity for his friend. However, the last time John had disappeared had been an important anniversary date. Sherlock mentally rummaged through his John-and-Mary-file. Yes, there it was. Three weeks after their first date, John had left Baker Street to see Mary with the attitude of a man hopelessly in love but expecting eventual rejection. He had returned in the wee hours of the morning with the confident posture of a man whose love was fully requited. Moreover, he had the insufferably joyous (and perhaps a bit self-satisfied) expression of a man who had just been thoroughly snogged. Sherlock imagined affixing an official plaque to the rail: "Historic Landmark—here John and Mary Watson shared their first kiss", with a date on the bottom. He considered briefly whether it was Mary who first kissed John or vice versa, leaning strongly in favour of the former, but realized he was treading in an area that was decidedly not his business.

Eventually, and without turning his eyes from the lights of Parliament, John spoke. "So how did you find me?"

"Mycroft was concerned that you might . . . do yourself a mischief," Sherlock admitted reluctantly.

"Tell Mycroft he can bloody-well throw himself in the Thames and mind his own bloody business," John commented without rancour. Sherlock nodded in silent agreement.

After a long pause, John asked, "You knew better, I assume? So, why are you here?"

Sherlock scrambled for a feasible answer. "The temperature is dropping. I was concerned for your health."

"Hmm," John sighed, then looked at Sherlock for the first time since he had arrived. "I wouldn't, you know. Kill myself. In case."

"In case of what?"

"In case there really is an afterlife," John admitted, a bit sheepishly. "Can you imagine what she would say to me if I did away with myself? I would rather do anything than have her disappointed in me."

Sherlock strongly felt the same way. "I know," he said tonelessly.

They stood there several more minutes, watching the traffic passing by. At last, Sherlock ventured, "However, you are making two great assumptions in that reasoning. First, that there is a possibility of an afterlife. And second, that if there is, you would end up in the same place as Mary."

John snorted in surprised laughter, music in Sherlock's ears. It was the first time he'd heard his friend's laughter since . . . .

"Since you're so concerned for my health, I suggest we walk home," John said at last. "It will warm us up a bit." Together, they started off on the hour-long trek to Baker Street.

"Just as a point of reference," Sherlock said as they trudged down the pavement, "how many days of importance will you be commemorating in the course of the year?"

John looked a bit annoyed. They had not, after all, discussed his reasons for being on the bridge; but it proved Sherlock's deductions to be correct. He took so long to reply that his friend thought an answer would not be forthcoming. Then, when he did speak, it was in a voice so quiet and broken that Sherlock was not certain he heard correctly.

"Three hundred and sixty-five," he thought he heard John say.