Authors Note:7 months after Reichenbach, and Sherlock is still 'dead'. Will be continued, so please review so that I can make it better. This is my first piece, so it's bound to be a bit messy and non-good. And also, I don't own the Characters, they belong to some awesome people like Moffatt, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Doctor John Watson sat on his favourite chair with his laptop. It had been 7 months, 4 days and 2 hours since Sherlock had… done what he did. He still couldn't bear to think about that word, couldn't bear to think about what had happened. Why had he done it? Why on earth would someone as annoying, as arrogant, as brilliant as Sherlock do what he did? It just didn't make sense.

He stared at his blog, his empty blog, willing himself to write something. But he didn't. He hadn't typed anything on his blog for months. He used to, though. At the start. A few weeks after the… incident, his psychiatrist had convinced him to write something. He had written about how the papers were wrong, how the police were wrong, how everyone was wrong about Sherlock. He had written thanks to people who believed him, and people who had helped him through the emptiness that was now his life. But then it had just become so… meaningless. The letters of apology, the invitations to remembrances, the house calls to check he was okay. It was just all so pointless. The apologies were lame, the house calls were a waste of effort, and the remembrances were just painful. It wasn't going to bring him back, and it did nothing to lift his boredom, and it certainly didn't weaken the ice-cold grip that Sherlock still held on his heart.

Maybe Moriarty was on to something. Life was just so dull without Sherlock. A continuous line. He needed a distraction. But what could distract him from Sherlock? He wasn't going to sink as low as Moriarty had, no, because Sherlock would have been ashamed of him. And he didn't want that.

He heard someone ring the doorbell. Urgent, but not a client. It was probably Lestrade or Molly. He sighed. He didn't have any visitors scheduled today, and he didn't want any. He ignored it. The doorbell rang again. He left it. The doorbell rang for the third time. He really didn't need this.

"Go away!" he shouted. He didn't want anyone here. He didn't want to have to play charades with anyone, pretend he was getting better when the reality was the opposite. In public, he was a private but relatively happy man, all things considered. But at home he was miserable. He just wanted to be left alone, was that too much to ask? He heard the doorbell again.

"GO AWAY!" he shouted again. He waited. He waited a bit more. He waited just a little bit more. Silence. He smiled, glad to have avoided social contact. He wondered how he managed to do it before. He had always been the social one, going out on dates, helping Mrs Hudson, answering the door, while Sherlock had always been the antisocial one. He had always been so alien, so knowing and unknowing and silent and loud, and he missed him. He honestly missed him. He missed his low, mocking voice, his violin at 3am, his uncontained experiments, his destructive boredom. All that was left now was his stuff, and an empty shell of a man sitting in his favourite chair.

There was a metallic jangle downstairs. It was probably Mrs Hudson, come back from the shops. It was a bit early, but maybe one of her friends had given her a lift. It didn't matter. Mrs Hudson let John be John, she could see past his pantomime of smiles and jokes, but she didn't pester him about getting help. She understood that John would be John, and pushing him would only make him worse. Good old Mrs Hudson.

He heard someone coming up the stairs. It wasn't Mrs Hudson, she avoided the steps when she could, she would have called him if she wanted him. The only other people who had a key were Lestrade, who was away in Scotland, and Mycroft, who had avoided John since the incident. So who was it? He listened to the footsteps, using the skills of deduction that Sherlock had been teaching him before the incident. The steps were slow, but not in a way that suggested casually. No, these were steps of burden, suggesting difficulty due to bad knees or weary feet. They were almost… forced, like the person needed to get up the stairs but found it incredibly painful, which suggested importance. But he didn't care about that anymore, nothing could be more important than his Sherlock. But nevertheless, he was curious. Who was walking up the stairs?

He listened patiently as the intruder reached the top of the stairs, and stopped. Why had they stopped? He heard deep breaths and noises, like the person was not used to physical exertion. He heard the person reach the door, pausing, possibly mustering up the courage and strength to enter. There was nothing. Why were they taking so long? Finally, he heard the person pull the door handle.