The day after John returned Harry's keys to her former landlord, leaving the flat gleaming, probably cleaner than it had ever been when she'd lived there, he awoke in the morning and did not feel the familiar numbness that had been living in his stomach. He lay still for a few minutes, waiting for it to return, but it didn't. It felt strange, because he felt lighter, more alert, more himself. The room around him felt brighter and airier, too, and he thought he'd slept better, more deeply but with fewer dreams.

He got up and showered, then dressed, emerging into the livingroom to find Sherlock making breakfast. One of his specialities, blueberry pancakes, and even properly sweetened tea. He seemed to be more consistent these days with not overdoing the amount of sugar he put into John's morning beverage, but John suspected it wouldn't last. He'd enjoy it while he could.

John still hadn't returned to work, and they had told him to take as much time as he needed, but he'd have to go back soon despite their offer. They needed him, his patients needed him, and he would need some routine in his life again. Sherlock was running his mad experiments at home again, although he had yet to go back to St. Bart's, and Lestrade hadn't called with any new cases. Despite this, Sherlock had managed to solve the case they'd been working on when Harry died. John didn't know how, but assumed it involved some more hacking into the Metro police's computer system, or just Lestrade's computer. Then he'd probably analyzed their case files and notes for about five seconds before narrowing down a list of suspects. It wouldn't have surprised John if Sherlock had the names of all the dentists in London stored in his brain, for some obscure reason.

When they finished eating, John cleared the dishes into the sink and glanced out the window. It was still early spring, so it was still cool, but the winter rains were mostly behind them, and it appeared to be a nice day already. He glanced back at Sherlock, who had returned his attention to whatever he was currently working on, chewing on his lower lip in concentration.

"Can we go out somewhere?" John asked.

Sherlock looked up quickly, glancing over his shoulder, then turning in his chair.

"Of course," he said and John noted that he seemed somewhat surprised. It was, John realized, the first time he'd wanted to leave the flat since Harry died. Certainly not the first time he'd had to, but he'd always gone reluctantly, to meet some obligation his sister had forced on him. "Where would you like to go?"

"For a walk near the river. Battersea Park, I think."

Sherlock flashed him a grin, standing and kissing him quickly on the lips.

"Certainly," he agreed.

They dressed in light jackets and gloves, and a requisite scarf for Sherlock, then caught the tube as far as they could, taking a bus the rest of the way in. The park was busy, even for the time of day and the time of year, but they ambled along the paths, reaching the Thames eventually, then walking aimlessly for about half an hour in the light breeze and spring sunshine. It was nice, John thought, to be outside, to see so many people enjoying the fine day. Cyclists were everywhere, and children, although thankfully neither group was colliding with each other. Women were in more skirts, less bundled up against the cold, a clear indication that winter was on its way out. Even Sherlock seemed to be enjoying himself, their arms linked, his grey eyes bright and clear.

Seeing the forest for the trees, John thought. Not the city for the battlefield. It was so rare to see Sherlock like this, and John loved that his husband only did this for him, was only like this because of John.

He wondered if Sherlock would contact Mycroft now, but thought not. Most people would take the death of a spouse's sibling as incentive to reconnect with their own family. In his own way, Sherlock had done that, once, calling his mother and John had gone up to the upstairs bedroom then, to give him some privacy. He didn't think Sherlock would want anything to do with Mycroft, though, at least not yet. It made John uneasy to think of having Mycroft in his life again, but he also didn't think Sherlock would freeze him out forever. It would take time, and John would accept it, but only on Sherlock's schedule. Mycroft, at least, seemed to realize that any attempt to contact Sherlock or stop by the flat would make things worse. It was probably the first time Mycroft had ever backed off because Sherlock had told him to.

Sherlock would probably dismiss the idea of learning something about his relationship with Mycroft from John's experience with Harry, and John didn't know if he'd be far wrong in doing that. Mycroft was dangerous and powerful. Harry had been an alcoholic. No power, not over herself, in the end.

Maybe it didn't matter, John thought. Certainly, it didn't matter today.

They found a bench and sat down, John bundling his hands into his pockets and Sherlock wrapping an arm around his shoulders. John didn't care if they drew stares, approving or judgmental; he was just happy to be sitting there, in the warm air, watching the river drift past, the grey-brown waters glinting in the sunlight. They sat in silence for a time, then Sherlock kissed John's temple lightly.

"Are you all right?" he asked softly.

John smiled, really smiled, and turned his face, looking up at Sherlock. He leaned up and kissed him softly on the lips, letting the contact linger for a moment, tasting the syrup and the pancakes on Sherlock's breath, feeling the warmth of his lips and his skin.

"I am. At least for now."

He wouldn't be later, he knew, because there was no getting away from the tragedy Harry had caused, nor the pain of her death, not so easily. But it was a start. Tricia promised him it would get better, almost a week ago, back when he could scarcely believe her, nor even really cared if things didn't change. But he felt good now, and he'd take it, so he could remember it when he no longer felt good, and look forward to the next time he felt like this.

He rested his head against Sherlock's shoulder, and his husband pressed his cheek against the top of John's head, his thick, dark hair tickling John's forehead somewhat. John slipped his right hand from his coat pocket and took Sherlock's left one, lacing their fingers together, resting their hands on Sherlock's thigh.

They sat and watched the water flow by for some time, resting against each other without a word, simply enjoying the company and the sunshine.

(End)