John called me the next day to tell me they weren't actively working on a case at the moment. "Do you want to come over anyway?" he asked. "I thought maybe you'd want to get out of the house for a while."

I did want to, badly, but I didn't want to wear out my welcome. I told him that the past few days had been emotionally exhausting for me, and I thought I'd just relax at home for the day. He accepted my excuse and told me he'd call the next day.

I lazed around the house for most of the day, breaking virtually all of John's rules for self-care. I saw no one. I half-hoped Jake would come by to get his stuff. Even though I knew it was over, it was hard for me to let go. I read something light and fluffy and watched mindless television and gorged on peanut butter sandwiches and ice cream. At the end of the day, I took a hot bath. Using a wash cloth, I symbolically cleansed myself of Jake, reciting as I cleaned each part of my body, "Jake is in the past. I will let go now and start afresh." But I didn't feel any better.

The next day, John called to ask me to join them on a case, and while I was away, Jake came by and collected his clothing. He must have watched the house to see when I was gone. I felt a twinge of sadness at missing him, but I was surprised to find that I no longer wanted to cry. Was I really moving on so soon?

Days went by, and I began to develop a routine. After my breakfast and run and shower, I'd show up at 221B unbidden. If there was a case, I'd work hard at it until John told me I needed to stop and go to bed. If there wasn't a case, I'd hang around anyway, helping John with the groceries or cleaning or whatever else needed doing. Sherlock and John never questioned this arrangement. They seemed to know I needed it. Sometimes John had to go work at the surgery, and then I would go for long runs rather than stay cooped up in the flat with Sherlock. I hated being alone with him; I was too afraid of what he might say. Sherlock never mentioned this, either. He was oddly quiet, almost respectfully so. John took to escorting me home at night so that I wouldn't have to go home to an empty house all by myself, although I'd done so many a time before I met him. He'd watch me go in and turn on the light, and then he'd hail a cab and return to his flat. We often had lunch or dinner, or sometimes both, together. He insisted on paying. I objected at first, but he told me sternly that the arrangement made sense, since I couldn't count on Jake's financial support any longer – the one thing I could count on from him after Samuel died – and I certainly couldn't live on my salary alone, while he had no worries about money between his military pension, his job at the surgery, and the work he did with Sherlock. He told me to consider it a pay rise, since it was unlikely that Sherlock would approve of him actually paying me more; Sherlock still bristled at paying me at all. So I gave up and let him treat me.

And then one day, when he took me home, there was a light on in my house. He pulled out his gun. I so rarely saw him use it that I forgot he had one on him. "Let me go in first," he said.

"It could be Jake," I said. "He still has a key."

"Better safe than sorry," he replied.

I unlocked the door and stood back. John called out, "Who's there?"

"Who are you?" Jake called down from upstairs. As his footsteps approached, John slipped the gun back into its hiding place with Jake none the wiser for his close encounter. "Oh," he said, as he reached the bottom of the stairs. "Isn't he the man who was with you when you saw me at Liz's house? Who is he anyway, your boyfriend?"

"He's a colleague," I snapped.

"Whatever," Jake said. "I'm just grabbing some more of my stuff. I'm sorry to disturb you. Give me half an hour, and I should be out of your hair."

Half an hour was longer than I wanted to put up with him, and John seemed to read my mind. "Why don't you come back to the flat with me?" he murmured. "You can stay there tonight."

Jake leered. "A colleague, huh? You read me the riot act for being unfaithful to you, but all the while you've been playing the same game."

John punched him in the face. I was so shocked, I had to grab the doorframe. Jake was shocked, too, "What the hell?!" he bellowed. John just turned around, grabbed my arm, and practically dragged me to the car. Jake didn't follow; I was thankful he was not much of a fighter.

We rounded a corner before he said anything. "I'm sorry," he said. "That was wrong, but I just can't stand that guy."

I smiled. "John."

"Yes?"

"I think I'm ready to meet with the solicitor."

He glanced over and smiled at me. "First thing tomorrow," he promised. "Tonight, you'll sleep in my bed, and I'll take the couch. It makes more sense, since you'd only by disturbing Sherlock if you slept downstairs. And tomorrow, we'll get those papers drawn up."