John walks dejectedly out of his therapist's office and hails a cab. His mind is swirling with anger, pain, and grief.
Sherlock is gone. He watched him commit suicide right in front of his eyes. He heard him say goodbye.
'Well,' he thinks to himself, 'At least I got that. Most people barely get as much.' Still, he cannot shake the overwhelming sadness that has seemed to overtake him.
Over the past year, Sherlock had become his life. Sherlock had been the only thing keeping him sane since his experiences in the war. Sherlock had kept him grounded, given him something to believe in. Now, there was nothing. The only person left in his life that he deeply cared about, gone.
He reaches their flat, now solely his. He nods at Mrs. Hudson as he enters, and trudges up the stairs.
As he reaches the top step, John almost expects Sherlock to be there, sprawled across the couch, complaining of boredom, or standing by the window, playing a mournful tune on his violin.
For a moment, John forgets. And then he opens the door to an all too empty flat, and he remembers again.
He walks over to his chair, opens his laptop and pulls up his blog page. For hours John sits there, staring at the blinking cursor on his laptop screen. For the first time since Sherlock, he has nothing to say. For him, ere is nothing left to say. For him, there is nothing. Sherlock is gone, and John is just...numb.
-OoO-
A few days later, John gives in to Mrs. Hudson's pleas to go with her to see Sherlock's grave.
John had been putting it off for as long as possible, because, for him, as soon as he sees his grave, that's it. Game over. There is no way out. He will have to accept that Sherlock is truly gone.
The sight of the grave is not as awful as John had thought it would be. He feels an almost peaceful energy rush through him, like an invisible hand has laid itself on his shoulder.
He talks, then, says all of the things that he didn't have the guts to say when Sherlock was alive, all of the words weighing on his heart. All but three. Three little words that John had sworn would never be spoken. Now, they never could be.
For the first time since Sherlock's death, John lets himself cry. He catches himself after a few moments, realizing that he would never want Sherlock to see him like this.
He straightens himself up, blinks his tears away, steels himself, and looks directly at the gravestone. Giving Sherlock a formal salute, John walks stiffly away, not allowing himself to look back.
He doesn't notice the pale blue eyes watching his every move from afar. He does, however, notice the tall, dark-haired woman staring intently at him near the gate. Something in her gaze unnerves him, and he quickens his pace.
-OoO-
The next day at the market, John sees the woman again. He is picking up more of his favourite tea, when he catches a glimpse of dark hair out of the corner of his eye.
He turns abruptly, and sees her leaning against the opposite rack of shelves casually, her posture entirely betraying the intense look in her dark eyes. The way she looks at him is penetrating and John wonders if she is trying to see into his soul.
Just as he is about to confront this strange woman, her face splits into a wide, feral grin, and she lets out an unnerving laugh. She gives John one last fierce glance, before turning and walking away.
-OoO-
For the rest of the week, John sees the woman everywhere. At the pharmacy, on the street, and always, always when he visits the cemetery.
Each time, it is always the same. She gives him one of her intense stares, grins at him, laughs, and walks away. John is about to dismiss it as a random London occurrence, until the day he finds her in his flat.
She is sprawled out on the couch in a similar manner to Sherlock, her long white skirt spilling over the edge of the couch and onto the floor. She looks over at him when she hears the door open.
"Took you long enough to get here." She drawls. "Feels like I've been waiting for hours." She stretches her limbs lie a cat, and John thinks that he can almost hear her purring.
He stands at the door, stunned, mouth hanging open in pure amazement at this mysterious woman now lounging in his flat. He tries to speak, rather unsuccessfully, before the woman gives him a derisive look.
"Are you going to say something, or just stand there gaping like a fish all day?" John glares at her.
"What are you doing in my flat?" She left her head and looks at him.
"He speaks! Oh, speak again, bright angel!" Her sarcasm seems to irritate him, and she lets out a little chuckle before shifting onto her side so that she is facing him.
"Who are you? How did you even get in here?" The woman grins at him.
"I'm afraid that's a secret, John." She puts a finger to her lips. "I'll never tell." She whispers.
"What the-how do you know my name? Who the hell are you? What do you want with me?" He screams at her, but the woman remains as calm as ever. She slowly stands up, crosses to John, and places a hand on his arm.
"I'm a friend. Well, friend of a friend. That is, if you can call talking once on a rooftop, friends..." John staggers backward slightly and she catches him.
"You mean...you're saying that you...an-and, h-he-" She grabs him firmly by the shoulders and helps him to his chair. Once he is seated, she takes his hand in hers in a gesture that she hopes is comforting.
"Yes. I was. I helped him. At least, I hope I did." She smiles reassuringly at him, a gesture which he tries to return. He fears he is unsuccessful.
"So then, why are you here now? Am I supposed to jump off of the roof of a building as well?" She chuckles and this time, it is soothing to John's frazzled nerves.
"No, I should think not. I'm a little bit of, what are they called...let's just say that I'm an omen."
"A good omen or a bad omen?"
"Can't say. That's a secret too." John rolls his eyes at her.
"An omen of what, then? At least tell me that much."
"An omen of rebirth."
John stares at her for a second. He can't believe what he's just heard. He wants to believe her. He wants to believe that this means what he thinks that it means, but he is far too broken to allow himself any sort of hope. She seems to follow his exact train of thought and squeezes his hand.
"Don't trouble yourself over what that means just yet. It's not quite time for that." She lets go of his hand and walks out of his line of sight.
John turns to ask her another question, only to find an empty flat. He leans his head back against the chair, and tries to process all of what has just happened.
-OoO-
It is almost three years before he sees her again. It is like the first few times, just a glimpse of dark hair and a snatch of a laugh.
John runs after her as fast as he is able to. He loses her almost immediately in the crowd, but catches another glimpse of her a few streets down.
He follows her hurriedly, and as he rounds a corner in pursuit of her, he runs into something solid, and feeling remarkably like a chest.
The force of the crash combined with his momentum knocks John flat on his bum, looking straight up into painfully familiar, sad blue eyes.
"Hello, John."