Post-Reichenbach.

At first John doesn't feel it. In fact, he doesn't feel much of anything. He's numb at Sherlock's funeral, he's numb after. His blog is blank, his mind too, and then it starts to come back as well. The ache, the heaviness of his entire being, centered in his leg. No, he thinks, not again. Sherlock helped him get rid of the limp and the cane. John's always seen that as a gift from Sherlock, even if the man himself would probably think it ridiculous to view it as such.

In all the good ways he changed my life, John thinks angrily, I'm not giving this one back. So John forces himself up out of his chair, reminds himself that the heaviness is all in his head, and goes outside. He's not in proper running clothes, his trousers will surely chafe, and it's raining.

He doesn't care.

He runs.

He runs and imagines he's chasing Sherlock, like that first time, after the cab. He runs after a ghost and pretends the great detective is just around the next corner, just beyond sight.

I just have to catch up, John thinks, and almost believes it.

John runs until the ache in his leg is but a memory, and the only thing left is the feeling of his heart, pounding fit to burst.