Chapter 4

Had he done everything he was supposed to have done? Always he'd given what he'd been asked. Not always cheerfully, but God knew he would've kept on giving. Mycroft and Lestrade seemed to want Sherlock's name cleared and his reputation restored. John wasn't sure if he even wanted it or maybe just thought he should want it. It had bothered him, certainly, but that was before. Strange that he had cared so much when his friend was alive and now it seemed inconsequential. Hero or villain, genius or madman, in the eyes of the public? Who the bloody hell cared? He was all four, John thought, and sui generis anyway, the world's only. Posthumous was the only word that registered with John. He had taken it all so much for granted. Why had he not known that it could end?

Everyone says the first year is the hardest. In dreams and awake, he saw the figure plummeting from the roof, but he was no longer angry that he'd been burdened with this image. It had occurred to him, after what was in retrospect quite a long time, that Sherlock hadn't required him to watch in order to be cruel, to hurt him. After all, Sherlock had never spared much thought— any thought?— for the cost to John of any of his demands. He had done it for himself. It was one of the first things he'd told John: he needed an audience. Certainly he had wanted John to follow him, both his footsteps and his leaps of logic. And his short journey to his final destination. Despite the ongoing trauma for John he couldn't say he would have wanted Sherlock to be alone for that.

Time and again John started to speak, to point out an item in the newspaper or an interesting passerby. He forgot Sherlock was gone, but it happened both ways. He forgot, thinking for a moment that his friend was still in the next room or just a step away or could turn up any minute. So many times Sherlock had surprised him by being where John was. They had actually collided that one time following separate trails to the Lucky Cat. Frequently, Sherlock had surreptitiously followed him. Or simply guessed—well, he would say known— where John was, where John would be, and materialized. John has to realise over and over that Sherlock is gone. But he forgot the other way too, got caught up in a patient or walking in the park and he didn't think about the man who is no longer there. Grief didn't become smaller but it came and went, it seemed. He couldn't choose to set it aside but sometimes it let go for a while.

Mycroft had been remarkably meek. He didn't invade John's bank account. He didn't involve Mrs. Hudson. Every month John received an envelope containing a check made out to Mrs. Hudson for half the rent. It was his choice whether to bin it or use it. Every month there was a correspondence card enclosed as well. Even John could see that the stationery was expensive and the message was written in quality ink. Thank you. No signature, but the card was embossed with the initials and a border in gold. Every month John accepted, because he wasn't being made to. Sherlock, of course, would go spare if he knew, but John didn't feel disloyal. It was an exchange of gifts: Mycroft wanted to do something for him and he wanted to do something for Mycroft, and there wasn't anything beyond this that one of them needed or wanted that the other could provide.

It had been eleven months since that fatal morning. Ten months since John moved back into 221B. Nine months since he began working four days a week and every third weekend at a clinic in Brixton. Four months since he resumed dating. He hadn't seen anyone more than a handful of times, but it was good to get out. He still didn't sleep well and he awakened immediately to the pounding at the door.

"Help!" The banging didn't let up while he pulled on shoes and ran downstairs. He and Mrs. Hudson met at the door and he waved her back before pulling it open.

A teenager, out of breath, looking and smelling like he lived on the streets, practically fell in. "There's a fight… in the park. Some bloke… said to get help… from this address."

"It's the middle of the night!" Mrs. Hudson protested.

"Did anyone call 999?" John asked.

"He said get help from 221 Baker Street."

"Fine, I'll go."

"Do be careful, John!"

He heard Mrs. Hudson offering the youth a cup of tea as he trotted towards the park. As he drew closer, a streetlight showed two figures fighting on the bridge.

"Oi!" John shouted.

A man in a long, dark coat landed a solid blow that sent the other reeling back. He seized the advantage and barreled forward, tipping his opponent off the bridge and into the pond below.


Author's Note: Any guesses as to what John just saw? Reviews are almost as good as a cup of tea made by John!