John misses his eyes. When he wakes up every morning he expects to see those eyes, gray and disinterestedly flicking over him, determining how he had slept before returning to their quick scan of the newspaper. He would make breakfast while being given peripheral glares from the gray orbs. Finally they would focus on him and John would be told their daily schedule. Every morning, he is disappointed.
Every apathetic date he goes out on, John keeps waiting for those eyes to come find him, glaring angrily, demanding why they hadn't been alerted to John's plans. They would be green then, color matching the pure jealousy for John's divided attention. He would be dragged away, apologizing profusely, but secretly glad. But his insipid dates end uninterrupted. None are revisited.
Mostly, John misses the way the eyes roamed over a crime scene. The absolute happiness with which they looked down a microscope. The childish excitement that turned them blue and gave them an internal light is burned into John's memory. He remembers constantly the last time he saw those blue eyes, staring blindly at the sky, dark locks making them seem even brighter in their final moments. Now there would be no more crime scenes. No more experiments. No more bright-eyed excitement. No more daily changes from gray, to green, to blue.