The one-month anniversary of Sherlock's death came three days later. I tried to tell myself that it was silly to fix on that day, that it was just like any other day, only one more day since Sherlock had jumped, but it was useless. The calendar on the wall seemed to be taunting me, the small black twelve in the corner of that day's square a stab in my aching chest.

I woke up early that morning from a dream that, like most of my dreams those days, took place outside Bart's Hospital. I had watched Sherlock jump, fall; as usual, I had not seen him hit the ground. In this particular dream, I had run to see him, and there had been no crowd of paramedics and civilians surrounding his body. I had been able to go straight to him; I had fallen to my knees there on the pavement next to him. Felt for a pulse even though I knew there was none. Then I had collapsed beside him, lying down, curled up into his still-warm coat, his blood sticky in my hair from where I had laid my head.

It wasn't a particularly terrible dream, as they went, but it was quite upsetting all the same, and, worse, I when I awoke, I felt a brief flash of relief, thinking for a moment that I was back at 221B, that Sherlock was asleep- or maybe up thinking- just a few metres away. Then I took in what I could of my dreary little room in the early morning darkness, feeling a sudden crushing sort of hopelessness.

I curled up on my side, bringing my knees to my chest like a child. I didn't stop the tears when they came, but let myself cry there, in the dark silence, protected and alone.

I got up maybe an hour after that, showered, dressed, made coffee. I sat at the table in front of the mug of steaming liquid feeling strangely drained, and lifeless. The ticking of the clock on the wall was deafening in the otherwise silent room. I had a sudden bleak revelation that whatever I did with the rest of my life, nothing would ever compare with the excitement of running after Sherlock Holmes. I rested my head in my hands. I'll always miss him, and it'll never be the same again.

Somehow I made it through that morning and afternoon, which seemed to drag on for much longer than usual, without any more emotional breakdowns. In a well-timed stroke of goodwill, Greg Lestrade arrived at the door early that evening with a bag of groceries and a bottle of wine.

I didn't answer the knocking at first, but after a few minutes, he yelled, "I know you're in there, John Watson," and then, "for god's sake open this door or I'll go get a warrant to break in the hard way."

When I finally did open the door, Greg gave no attention to my lukewarm welcome and smiled widely at me.

"I'm glad you are here," he said lightly, "would have been a bit embarrassing to call in my DI privileges just to find out you weren't home."

I had to smile at his casual assurance of his earlier threat. "Come in, then," I said, opening the door a little wider.

When he had come past me and set the groceries on the table, he looked appraisingly around the flat. "It's a bit bare in here, isn't it?" he said, tone skeptical. I shrugged, and walked over to stand across the table.

"So what are you doing here?" I asked.

Lestrade looked more serious. "John, I know what today is," he said meaningfully. I raised a hand slightly to object, but he shook his head, looking down as if to dismiss my reaction. "No, John, I've lost people myself. Don't try to tell me it doesn't matter, because I know it does."

I bit my lip and avoided his gaze, but didn't protest.

After a moment Greg picked up the bottle of wine. "Corkscrew?" he asked.

I pointed. "Top drawer."

He opened the bottle, located wineglasses, and poured two generous glassfuls, then held up his own.

"To Sherlock," he said quietly. I raised my glass slowly, let it touch his so gently that the small clink was barely audible. I almost repeated his toast, but changed my mind, too unsure of what control I had over my voice, and simply gave a small nod.

It was good wine, a Burgundy, dry and earthy. By the time I'd finished my first glass, I felt much more relaxed, and thankfully less wont to break down emotionally. Lestrade had brought a frozen pizza, with an obviously unnecessary apology for his lack of creativity, and lettuce for a salad. We made a simple vinaigrette to dress it, put the pizza in the oven, and sat there talking about things unrelated to Sherlock over salad and wine and the smell of melting cheese.

It wasn't until an hour or so after dinner that Sherlock's name arose again. We were sitting on the couch with the last of the wine and a pack of cards, which Greg had also brought. We'd just finished a game of Rummy when Lestrade pulled an envelope out of his pocket and looked pensively down at it. I didn't pay much attention to it initially, shuffling the cards and dealing out another hand of Rummy, but after a moment Greg held it out for me to take. I took it, frowning inquisitively at him. He rubbed a hand across his jaw.

"I found that lying around the flat the other day," he said. I opened the envelope- it wasn't sealed- and pulled out a small stack of papers.

"I caught them when he was- deep in thought," Lestrade explained with a chuckle.

They were photos, photos of Sherlock. Mostly profiles, all candid, some with objects in the foreground that suggested that the photographer had been hiding behind something when the pictures were taken. I sucked in a deep breath and held it.

The only pictures I had of Sherlock were from the tabloids, folded papers stacked at the very back of the file cabinet next to my desk. Those pictures were either of Sherlock hiding his face, trying to avoid the cameras, or of him smiling forcedly, uncomfortable and awkward.

These photos were different. They showed Sherlock as I remembered him, brow furrowed slightly in concentration, gaze focused on something invisible to all but him. His long profile, the square chin and sharp, slanting cheekbones, piercing grey-blue eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. This was Sherlock in his element, Sherlock on a case, the Sherlock that I'd known and loved.

After one short month, seeing his face was a shock greater than I could have imagined. I flipped through the photos- there were nine of them- several times without stopping. Lestrade looked slightly concerned, but he didn't interrupt. After a few minutes I stopped, squared off the small stack, slipped it back into the envelope. I cradled the parcel gently in my hands like the treasure it was.

I felt as though Greg had given me some tiny piece of Sherlock back, a tiny piece that I could save for as long as I lived. A tiny piece that brought into stark light the weight and permanence of my loss.

I took a deep, shaky breath. "Thank you, Greg," I said in a low, unsteady voice.

He inclined his head. "Of course," he said quietly.

There was a moments pause, then he looked up and smiled. "Should I deal?"

I nodded and let him take the cards.