John sat by the window, as he had ever since the recent death of his friend Sherlock Holmes, and stared at the rain. The rain hadn't stopped for a week since the funeral, the fat droplets of water an endless waterfall of tears he could no longer cry. He had spoken to his psychiatrist but, after the first session, couldn't bear to dwell on the tragedy that had shaken him so brutally to his core. That is why he had moved out of Baker Street and the empty apartment that had suddenly seen so huge and gaping without his friend there. He hadn't even had the will to sort through Sherlock's things yet – which, once upon a time, seemed immense and endless, a mystery within themselves; but were now just empty objects without character.

John kept getting horrific flashbacks of the event, just like the ones he used to get after Afghanistan. But back then, Sherlock had been his distraction that had helped him get on with his life – now there was nothing. There hadn't even been a case, as Scotland Yard and the Met didn't find him in a 'fit' enough state of mind to work.

Sherlock staring him straight in the eye – fear on his face – and then spreading his arms and falling, falling. . .

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK

The sound of a thumping fist on the front door snapped John out of his involuntary state in sudden surprise. He quickly jumped up and walked to the door, an unusual spring of anticipation in his step. It wasn't that he never had any visitors - rather that he wasn't good company at the moment so others seemed to have steered away.

It must be Mrs Hudson he thought as he clicked back the lock and swung the door open.

Instead, the woman standing there seemed nearly half Mrs Hudson's age and was wearing a low-cut black dress. She had red lipstick on her pale face, and her eyebrows were intricately curved to permanently give her face expression. However, as she stood in the doorway with her lace umbrella and straight-cut coat, her face was not pulling the same expression that it usually portrayed. Instead, her brow was pulled together in worry and her hair was dishevelled and unkempt.

"Miss Adler?" John felt stunned – not by her appearance (as usual), but by the fact that she was here at all. The last he'd heard of her she had been dead.

"John", she breathed, suddenly seeming relaxed. She peered over his shoulder into the house. "Where is he? I was surprised to hear that you two are no longer in Baker Street."

John's felt his face fell. He had hoped, just for a second, that she had turned up from out of the blue to tell him that Sherlock was actually still alive.

"He's not here", he said miserably. "He's dead."

Adler's eyebrows perked up in suspicion.

"Oh come on, this is Sherlock we're talking about", she mocked sarcastically.

She looked at John for a long moment before realising he was being deadly serious.

"Oh, god", she muttered, covering her mouth with her hand. She seemed to turn paler, and John thought quickly.

"Come inside." He slowly ushered her through the hall into the living room and sat her down.

"Dead?" she asked again, still asking for clarification. Wanting to avoid this conversation for as long as possible, John gestured to the kitchen.

"Can I get you anything? A cup of tea perhaps?"

Adler just stared at him with an intense gaze, a thousand questions burning in her eyes. John sighed and sat down opposite her, promptly realising that now was the best time as ever to tell her. After all, putting off explaining it wouldn't do him any favours.

He took a shaky breath before he started, flashbacks once again filling his mind.

"It was Moriarty, I'm sure it was. We - Sherlock and I - had run into him before, but then he came up in a court case after breaking into the three most secure places in London." Adler's eyes widened. "In the end, he couldn't be proven guilty so he went free. Then, long story-short, an intricate game unravelled that ended in Sherlock's. . ." He choked, swallowing on the last word.

Adler sat in silence, taking it all in. John awkwardly looked down at his hands, not wanting to make eye contact with the woman who deceived and twisted all that she touched – even the great Sherlock Holmes.

"That tea would be nice now", she sniffed, her voice low. John immediately stood up and left the room.

As he stirred the milk into the light porcelain cups, the motion soothed him. In truth, he enjoyed moments like these – moments to be alone. That was most likely the reason why he'd been on his own lately - not that other's hadn't wished to see him, but that he'd unintentionally alienated himself.

Only now, he wasn't alone. Just through the doorway was Irene Adler, a wonder in her own right, but a complicated one. Whatever Irene Adler did or wherever Irene Adler went, there were always strings attached and bargains to be met. But as silence dawned on in the flat once again, company with her suddenly didn't seem like such a bad idea.

As John carried the tea through to the other room he studied her face carefully, searching for any betrayal of emotion he could find.

She took the tea gratefully, giving a tiny smile, and sipped it slowly. John sat himself down opposite and circled his finger round the rim of the cup as he thought.

"I want to see him", Adler said suddenly. John looked up at her in despair, wondering if the last conversation had just been a total waste.

She smiled apologetically.

"I meant his grave", she said, wincing slightly.

John felt a raw pain in his chest, and a strange nagging sensation - guilt. He had visited the grave once after the funeral, but hadn't been since. Now he felt like he had betrayed his friend in some way, even though he hadn't stopped thinking about him since . . .

"Sure", John sniffed, putting his cup down. He then stood and waited. "After you."

.

An icy-cold breeze blew through the cemetery as they stood, heads bowed, before Sherlock's grave. It had stopped raining while they'd walked, but John could still feel the rain curling round his toes and making his bones grow cold with each gust of wind.

The golden writing on the black stone stated nothing but Sherlock's name – gleaming mysteriously against the dark background. That had been Sherlock, always the mysterious type. The unsolved case.

"Look." Adler knelt down and stroked scratches that had been made by Sherlock's name.

John looked up at the tree the grave rested beneath.

"Probably just a fallen branch", he grumbled, feeling saddened that Sherlock's grave had already lost its unsoiled quality.

"No", Adler argued, looking up at him. "These scratches are deep – they're deliberate."

Confused (with resentment slowly growing at the possibility of vandals), John knelt down beside her and studied the marble headstone.

Sure enough, carved into the tombstone, were markings which John had not noticed before. Shocked, John felt the etchings of the symbols with his trembling fingers.

"Who could do this?" he gasped, shocked.

"I don't know. But I think it's important that we find out what it means."

Thanks for reading, please let me know what you think. Thanks