I do not claim any ownership of the characters within. Instead, they are simply my playthings for the moment.
The new year had rolled in while he wasn't looking and before he knew it, 2015 had come along. The six month anniversary of The Wreck (as he had so verbosely dubbed it in his mind) stared John in the face from the calendar in the kitchen of 221B. In a few short months, it would be three years since Sherlock's death. Just a few more and he would be a widower for one year.
He supposed, at the time, the only reason he could ever be thankful for his friend's death would be that he'd yet to fully move on from it. So, when Mary and Hamish had been so cruelly taken from him so quickly, he'd been able to compound the grief and move relatively quickly through those stages he was intimately familiar with: Denial, Anger, and Bargaining. Violet had helped him with a vast portion of the Depression that had seeped into his soul. She'd been a blessing.
John allowed himself to mourn that which had been taken, would forever be missed, was still loved, and made the decision to Accept the hand Fate had dealt him and move forward.
One week later near the end of January, John Watson sent his last text to Sherlock Holmes from the foot of his friend's grave. He visited his wife and son's shared grave, kissed the rose-coloured marker, and left a bouquet of the same flowers she'd carried on the day they'd married: White calla lilies and purple wisteria.
Spotting the black sedan on the road near the grave sites, John waved to the driver and climbed inside moments later.
Mycroft had lost weight in the years since Sherlock's death, and John had begun worrying when the bruises under the British Government's eyes began to be a more permanent fixture. He seemed to be glued to his mobile more so these days than ever before. Case in point, his frowning, brow-furrowed visage watched the screen unblinkingly as fingers flew in response to the latest incoming text.
"Mycroft."
"Hmm?" He didn't once pause or lift his gaze, but John knew without a doubt that every word he spoke would be heard, deduced, and understood in fractions of a second.
"Mycroft." John reached out and, using his rusty but still quick soldier reflexes, snatched the phone from Mycroft's hand just as the message was sent. His friend paled a bit before controlling himself and the obviously involuntary reaction to grab the mobile back. "Not today, alright? Let Anthea and your horde of minions run the country for a few hours. Please."
He looked as if he might argue, and John was ready for it, but at the last minute, Mycroft smiled lightly and nodded. "You're right, of course. But just for safety's sake...," and held his hand out for the mobile.
John chuckled at him and, shaking his head in exasperation, returned the phone. "How about lunch? I know a great place near Trafalgar Square..."