Spring arrives gradually; at first the change seems almost imperceptible. The cold had been just the same, but these past few days there had been something different about the light in the afternoon; something difficult to describe. It was remarkable that John had begun to notice.

John watched the first real sun of spring shine on the buildings and on the river far down below; the light catching on every surface, on the boats and the bridges; the familiar outlines. It was more than a sense of belonging. It was like being woven in, intrinsically part of something; feeling its heartbeat is your own.

John remembered that feeling, after coming back from Afghanistan. Despite constant pain in his body, and a mind fragmented like a broken mirror, here was home; after being somewhere so inhuman, so alien. The sight of those familiar buildings in the cool air. It had been almost euphoric.

John observed that scene now; sparkling ripples flickering, mesmerising. The hum of life unfolding all around him, cars and office workers bustling past him, ceaselessly moving like bees in a hive. He tried to reach for that feeling again, the feeling of calm, of belonging, but he could not feel it. Yet standing here he maybe felt a murmur of intense sadness, somewhere deep inside him in a place he couldn't quite reach; something stirring. An emotion; maybe not the right emotion, although who could say what the right emotion was? But at least something, after the relentless numbness, after the shock of losing him.

Sherlock.

It had been weeks and weeks now, yet Sherlock's absence was still constantly tangible. The loss as inescapable and as wide as the sky, as he stood on that bridge. But John was aware that there must be intervals of time now when he didn't think about it. When he could become lost in something else for a few minutes. Then the realisation that he hadn't been thinking about it, would mean that he now was, and with that came the fear and shame that maybe he was starting to forget. It was enough to drive him insane, he thought.

Sometimes John worried that his memories of Sherlock were becoming distorted. Sherlock had been no saint; yet on the side of the angels. If he were here he would have no sympathy with John at all. He would most probably ridicule him and then expect him to abandon everything to follow him headlong into another case. And, of course, John would; eternally grateful for a friend that would never allow him time to indulge in self-pity.

There were moments when things came to his attention; things that hadn't before, but should have done. Like the fact that his clothes were too big for him. How could he have lost that much weight sitting around the house? One day he woke up and realised that there was food rotting in his fridge, his new fridge, not the one that used to contain human body parts. How had he not noticed that before?

There were sometimes flashes of clarity when he thought he should pull himself together; maybe do something about the stubble on his face, or try to return some of Lestrade's and Mrs Hudson's answer phone messages. But the extreme effort it would take to do that; just sending a text back was a monumental task he could not face.

Self-medicating he managed some sleep, only to be caught up in the most vivid dreams, where Sherlock would be more real than ever, and waking up he could not be immediately convinced that the dreams were not the reality and vice versa.

In between the numbness and the agony was the guilt. The sick ball of guilt that was almost tangible in his stomach. That woke him up in the early hours of the morning and wouldn't let him go back to sleep. When he spoke to his therapist; when he spoke his guilt out loud, he could see the very clear logical argument that it wasn't his fault. There wasn't anything he could have done, probably nothing anyone could have done; the logical argument that lived in a space outside of him, and that he couldn't quite grasp and reconcile with what he knew deep down.

He hadn't saved Sherlock.

Because, really and truly it had been up to him to save Sherlock. If not him then who else? Not Mycroft. Despite the fury that the thought of that man evoked in John, and for all Mycroft's part in Sherlock's downfall, he had asked John to look after Sherlock; had believed that John could do that. The responsibility had been John's.

Every now and then John believed he might be starting to heal. But he didn't know if he wanted to, because surely that would mean forgetting.

…

BEEP

Hello John, it's Mrs Hudson here. I was just phoning to see how you are. It would be nice if you could come and visit. I've been sorting through things in the flat. I found some peculiar joints of meat in your freezer; mostly bones, really. I wondered if you knew what they were? I was going to make some soup with them, save wasting them, but then I thought it might be one of Sherlock's… you know one of his experiments. And then I wasn't sure if I could throw them out with the normal food-waste or not...

...

John pressed the stop button on the answer machine. He couldn't deal with Mrs Hudson today. He had to get ready for work.

…

Another patient had just left John's room at the GP surgery. He had seen seven patients already today. But they weren't the only ones John had been observing. John had discussed with his therapist about going back to work; whether it would make him worse, whether it would make him better. As if the most important factor in all this was John, and not Sherlock at all. In the end it had been a necessity to work, in order pay the rent on his new bedsit, and here he was. He had got up, shaved, (although differently from before) got dressed, arrived somewhere on time. All good indicators, he thought.

Listening to his first patient that day, John felt paper-thin. The patient's words were so uninteresting. Fidgeting, John had had to ask her to repeat what she had just said, his concentration evaporating halfway through a sentence. Every interaction was taking too long, using up his precious time so he couldn't move on to the next meaningless interaction. Like suspense; like fear or anticipation of something that could never be realised.

Typing up the notes, John had several times just stopped, with no motivation to continue. His mind, not wandering to anything particular. Just wandering.

…

It was after patient number seven that John's adrenaline suddenly spiked.

From the direction of the waiting room a series of loud crashes and unearthly shouting made John spring to his feet, all his soldier's reactions finding him again. He tried to ignore the giddy feeling in his head, exacerbated by sleep deprivation and the sudden change of emotional pace, and he tore through to see what was happening.

In the waiting room a patient was wreaking havoc. The other patients stood cowering at the sides of the room, mothers shielding small runny-nosed children, as plastic chairs lay strewn around the waiting room. The man was wild-eyed and highly aggravated. His clothes and hair disgusting, beads of sweat standing out on his forehead, and blood from a wound on his face congealed on his collar. The man was shouting in an unnatural way, waving scabby hands, decorated with home-made tattoos, and threatening all sorts of dark violence in terms that made John's blood run cold.

An addict, in need of a fix.

It wasn't until John had fully taken in the horror of that figure that he noticed the other figure in the scene; the only other person that was not hiding at the edges of the room.

Mary.

She stood, calm and serious, facing the lunatic. A small self-assured figure; not flinching from the waving hands and flying furniture, apparently not afraid at all.

"We can't help you, unless you calm down", her voice came as authoritative, stern and unperturbed as her figure. She seemed almost disdainful; she could have been speaking to a naughty child as much as to a grown man.

The man fixed bestial eyes on Mary, ranting and roaring abuse. Suddenly, from somewhere, the man produced a syringe, wielding it at Mary's face and swearing at her. Without thinking John lunged forward, grabbing the man's wrist, forcing him to drop the syringe. He twisted the arm up tight against the man's back and felled his legs to the floor, pinning him down while the man struggled pointlessly under John's grip.

"Call the police", he barked up at Mary.

"I already have, they're on their way", Mary replied coolly, smiling.

Smiling.

Almost as if… she was enjoying this.

…

John's blog, 7 March

I keep thinking I see him; walking away from me in a crowd, a face in a taxi. But it can't be him. He's not here. Sometimes the world seems so big that's impossible to imagine that he can't be somewhere. That all that genius, and brilliance and arrogance; that it's all just gone. How can that be true?

When I spoke to my therapist she told me that that was normal to make-believe that it wasn't real; to think that maybe he is not dead at all; that he might just turn up somewhere when I'm least expecting it, and tell me that it had all been a mistake.

I do know, really. I know that Sherlock, my best friend, he is dead. I said it out loud to my therapist today. I know when someone is dead; you see, I checked his pulse myself. I saw the blood in his hair. The blood on the pavement; so much blood. When I close my eyes now, I can still see it.