AN: This is a story in which I have changed John Watson's gender to fit my own selfish longing to be in his shoes.

She fancied herself brave. Though that was not the thing she was. She could say that she was lonely and not as young as she once was and every bit would be true. But oh, how young she had felt three years ago to the day. Chasing criminals and getting little to no sleep could really brighten ones complexion, however ironic that seemed.

Today, she felt immensely old. Pulling her sandy blonde hair into a tight ponytail highlighted the sharp angles her face had acquired through the lack of eating. Her cheekbones pushed dangerously against her skin. Her eyes, once so bright and full of light, glinted dimly in the morning's sun rays. Three years had really done her damage.

Others still considered her tirelessly beautiful. The press always made sure to comment on how peachy her cheeks seemed or how wildly attractive her demeanor was. But in all reality, she felt as if she had lost her breath and was slowly dying.

She forced herself to look somewhat presentable today. The high neck of her coat collar did a very good job at hiding the pale skin on her neck. The coat sleeves did a substantial job of concealing the skinniness of her arms. But the coat itself served as a stark reminder of the thing she had lost, the thing which had given her life and had very much taken it away again. Must she continue on? She had asked herself many times. Yes, she must because death could only stop you, not the rest of the world; not the criminals, not the crimes, not the schemes. If the world's only consulting detective disappeared and his companion too, who else would there be to solve the most complex of crimes?

So she buttoned up the last of her coat and slipped her mobile into one of its pockets. It was time again to attempt to be just as Sherlock Holmes had been.

"The MO of the killer seems to have changed a bit. He's tying up his victims first," DI Greg Lestrade said, moving around the body. Joan knelt down beside the body, concentrating on the man's receding hairline and tired wrinkles around his eyes. Middle aged, married, possibly a father of two children.

"We still haven't come to any conclusion that the killer is a he, Lestrade," Joan said. She lifted the collar of the victim, running a gloved finger beneath it. Nothing. It was good to check, though. Something she felt Sherlock would have done.

"Well, whoever it is killing these people, they're changing up their strategy."

"Bored."

"Sorry?"

"They're becoming bored with the same slit-throat-and-discard way of killing. They're changing up the game."

Lestrade stepped back from the body, turning to look at Joan. "Don't tell me they're doing this just for fun." She gave him a look. "For God's sake!" he exclaimed.

"Still, one can't underestimate the killer's intentions." Joan stood; stuffing her hands into her pockets, she felt satisfied with what she had come up with. "You should send out agents to Kent's Booksellers." She began walking away from the body.

"Why?" Lestrade called out after her.

"You'll discover who this man left with and, possibly, the killer you have been searching for."

Behind her, Lestrade shook his head, muttering beneath his breath, "It wouldn't surprise me if Sherlock had been reincarnated in her."

Joan pushed open the door to Angelo's, warming in the sudden heat that surged around her. Weather in London this time of year was bitter and any possible warmth was welcomed. She made her way to her favorite spot, settling into a chair just beside the front window.

"Ah! My favorite woman!" Angelo exclaimed, rushing to greet Joan. She smiled at the owner, a long felt feeling of happiness spreading through her at his familiar face.

"Hello, Angelo."

"It has been a long time since you come in here. Why must you be eluding me?" He spread out his arms and attempted to shape a pout from his smiling mouth. The end result was some contorted mixture and he and Joan burst into a fit of laughter. Joan hugged the man, wondering why she had not sought out his company in the past years. She settled back down into her seat.

"Give me your best wine and food, Angelo. I feel I need your wonderful hospitality."

"Always," he said and hurried off to fetch the best of what he had.

Joan had not been in this restaurant since Sherlock…well, since he died. She gazed longingly at the empty seat before her, remembering how a couple of years ago he would have been sitting across from her, no plate or drink in front of him. He would have been rambling on about some theories he had about the latest case and would have a distant look in his grey eyes. She sighed and adjusted the lone wine glass on the table, attempting to fill the empty space.

Her coat pocket buzzed and she gingerly lifted the mobile out of her pocket.

We must speak. –MH

Mycroft. Glancing out of the window she saw a black car pull up, windows tinted, indiscreet. She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. He had not completely abandoned her after Sherlock died and in fact, they had become, if conceivably possible, closer because of it. She wouldn't say they were best friends, but they definitely shared a few things in common.

Give me 15 minutes to eat, please. – JW

Fine, but hurry. – MH

The older Holmes brother only contacted her if he was in need of a favor, usually dealing with something high profile, and she did not think any less of this message. It was a wonder he still contacted her as she was not as good as deducing things as Sherlock had been. But Mycroft's faith in her was constant and she was grateful for that. As there was nothing else on her agenda, it was perfect timing for his message to arrive to her.

Angelo brought back a vintage wine, which he assured her would take away quite a bit of stress, and a delicious looking plate of pasta. She hurried to fill her body with some of the food, thankful that she at least had some of her appetite back, and swallowed the wine down quickly. Checking the time on her mobile, she got up quickly, leaving a wad of bills on the table.

"Thank you, Angelo." She kissed his cheek.

"Gone so soon?" he asked her, spinning around to watch her rush hurriedly out of his restaurant, as had happened many times before.

"I've got a case." And she smiled. It was not her brightest smile, but it was one that brought warmth into his heart and hope that she was moving on.

"So like Sherlock," he murmured, smiling sadly to himself as she disappeared out the door. "Poor girl."

Joan slid into the backseat of the car, shutting herself inside. The last time she had been enclosed in the familiar darkness, she had helped solve a case of a missing diplomat's daughter. The end result had found the daughter simply sleeping over at a friend's house; the girl had just forgotten to inform her parents. Joan wondered what sort of case Mycroft would have her chasing after now. She needed anything to take her mind off of things – Angelo's wine did little to quell her upset. Perhaps a good and hearty mystery would focus her.

The car slid easily through the crowded streets of London. She stared out of the window, eyes chasing the buildings that flew past. So many people going on with their average, ordinary lives. And there she was. From the moment she had met Sherlock Holmes, her life had been tipped on the opposite end. She hadn't been just an ex-army doctor searching for a job, anymore. She became an ex-army doctor with a best friend going out on mind-boggling adventures. There was never a boring day, as sometimes claimed by Sherlock. Any day spent with him had been one of mystery and reckless abandon.

Now, her life was sometimes filled with same mystery she had come across before. But the main attraction of it all had canceled, left without a trace. If it weren't for the mildly interesting cases she was given, she didn't know how she would survive.

The car pulled smoothly around a corner and Joan found herself staring up at the haunting of her memories. St. Bartholomew's loomed in front of her eyes, mocking her, taunting her with the last images of Sherlock Holmes.

Once, she had attempted to come to terms with her fears and memories. She remembered the day clearly. Somehow, she had gotten it into her mind that she could cross in front of St. Bart's to get to her flat just on the other side of town. It had been as good a time as any to overcome the misgivings she had about the building.

She remembered staring up at it, eyes immediately drawn to the place where he had jumped. The conversation had come clearly back to her, the words ringing in her head. She stubbornly poised herself; shoulders straight and pushed back; head held high. Only her eyes remained downward as she stalked across the spot where he had lain, lifeless and bloodied.

And she had collapsed. Her breath had caught in her throat and she struggled to breathe as she hugged her knees. She couldn't do it then and she couldn't do it now as the car slipped past the spot. She felt the tears begin to drip down her cheeks, felt her heart break once again. Surely this driver knew what he was doing to her and she hated him for it.

"Please," she begged him, and the driver cast a glance back at her. Perhaps she had looked desperate enough, or perhaps the look on her face scared him. He quickly made an exit from the road in front of St. Bart's and a little of the weight that was compressing on her chest let up.

Joan fell back against the seat, feeling pathetic and wholly unsure of her stability. It was quite possible, as she came to understand, that she would never get over Sherlock's death.

"Why?" she whispered, anguish ripping through her. "Why must you torment me still?"

Someone from the press had commented on her sorrow at one point two years ago.

"It hurts so much because you loved him."

Love him, she had wanted to correct the reporter, but her doubt got the better of herself. Perhaps she did love Sherlock. But it also could have been a passing fancy to a man that had finally paid her some attention. And even then she knew that Sherlock had only found her interesting because she kept up with him, trusted him wholeheartedly. The feeling had most definitely not been reciprocated.

Joan closed her eyes and rested her head against the back of the seat. The pain would never go away. Only the temporary mysteries she was given could ease her unrest. She hoped that Mycroft had something good to give her.

The car pulled to a stop in front of a typical Mycroft chosen warehouse. Joan rolled out of the backseat, wrapping her coat tightly around her against the biting chill that whipped through the courtyard. She scurried to get inside the place where the walls would serve as a windbreak against the wind. As she stepped into the entrance, her mobile buzzed.

Third floor. –MH

The run she had to get up the stairs warmed her little. She was disappointed at Mycroft's choice of meeting place. He could have at least chosen someplace warm.

She spun around, searching for the figure of Mycroft. She wanted to get the case and be off as soon as she could; her flat's heater was looking especially inviting to her. When her eyes did not light upon him, she began to get annoyed.

"Mycroft, I am in no need of your silly games," she called out. Her words echoed back to her on the empty floor. She huffed and began walking past a pile of crates, searching for the missing Holmes brother. If she could have her way, she would wring his neck for his dramatist ways.

"Mycroft!" she cried out again, becoming more perturbed by the second.

"It seems Mycroft failed to inform you that he was not to make a presence today."

Joan froze. Impossible.

"I see he is still, dare I say, cunning as ever."

There was nothing better that she would have liked than to believe what her sub-conscious was telling her. But rationality won over her wishes. There was just no possible way.

The voice was silent behind her and Joan's curiosity got the best of her. She slowly spun on her heel, letting her eyes drift up to the tall, dark figure standing in front of her. His hair, slightly shorter than before but just as curly, moved restlessly against his head, the wind picking it up and twisting it. His face, just as sharp and stunning as she recalled, was stoic; his eyes guarded and calculating. It was impossible that this image of him was so pure when in fact the last she had seen of him, he had been quite gory. The deep burgundy was all that was prominent in her mind's eye, and yet it clashed with this new picture of him.

She let out a breath she hadn't known she had been holding. "I've gone mad, haven't I? Bloody insane." His mouth twitched slightly. Was it a smile that wanted to come through? Or had he wanted to agree with her statement and then jab at how sodding unobservant she had been to her own insanity?

The image of him moved, coming closer to her. But she held up a hand, stopping him instantly.

"Stop. Please, just stop it." Joan covered her face with her hands. "I can't handle even this perfect hallucination of you."

The sound of his shuffling feet came closer and soon he had come to stand in front of her.

"Joan," he whispered, an infliction of pain running through the word as he spoke.

"Sherlock," she said with similar anguish. If it was possible, she felt herself break even more. This hallucination was too real. It was unfair that her mind would conjure something like this three years after his death happened. It was not right that it had even brought up something like this at all. Had she not been through enough pain already?

She wished she could reach out to him; touch his face; hold his hands; feel him alive again. She satisfied her longing by opening her eyes and drinking his illusion in. If that was the only good thing her mind had given her, then she would take full advantage of it. It would not ease the pain either way if she just shook the image out of her head and returned to reality. She might as well make it worthwhile.

And so she stared at him, running her eyes over the well remembered curls and sharp cheekbones. She studied his complexion, the angles his shoulders made in the long coat. She recommitted everything to memory because if her mind decided she needed to see him again, then she would be able to remember everything just as accurately.

The illusion made to lift his hand to touch her, but it fell limply down at his side. She looked on in horrified silence as his fingertips first began disappearing, and then his arm. Soon, his whole body twisted, turned and blew away as if it were smoke.

She collapsed onto the floor, cradling her head in her arms. All she could do was cry. It was horrible; the breathlessness, the wailing. The sound rung back to her ears in the deserted warehouse, filling the empty space with her grief. It bubbled up around her, seizing and tossing her around. She just couldn't stop.

Her sobs masked the sounds of footsteps hurrying up the stairs. It took her a full minute to realize that someone had placed a warm hand on her shoulder and was murmuring comforting words to her. She fought to get control over herself and looked up at the person that had joined her.

"Mycroft," she whispered. Flinging her arms around the only Holmes brother, she continued to cry. She didn't care if she soiled his suit, nor the fact that he was probably uncomfortable. He was the only one that truly understood what she felt and his presence was more than she could ask for at the moment.

"I'm so sorry," Mycroft said, wrapping an uncertain arm around her shoulders. "I'm so sorry." And he was, because he could not bring back his brother; sorry, because he had been late; because he could not ease this woman's pain; because, despite being heartless on the outside, he could not fully let himself break that persona and ease her sorrow.

Sherlock looked down below on the scene with something sharp pounding in his chest. Pain, he realized. The sensation, though not new to him, was more forceful than it had ever been before. He knew he deserved every stabbing it sent through him. He hoped that maybe it would tear him apart one day for what he had done to those he loved.

"Soon," he said to the pair of broken people on the third floor of the empty warehouse. "I will come back soon."