This is my first Sherlock fanfic, so please be gentle!
The first days after Sherlock's funeral were a blur to John. He held himself up in his room for three days, crying, sleeping, and just laying in silence. Mrs. Hudson brought him three meals a day that sometimes went untouched. In the next few weeks he barely ate. He only left his room to use the facilities.
On the twenty-first day he caught sight of himself in the bathroom mirror. His sandy blond hair was sticking up in different directions, he had dark circles under his eyes from the nightmares that plagued him, and he was still in the same clothes he wore that day. He saw the dried blood on his sleeve and felt his heart stop. His knees buckled under him and he began to weep on the bathroom floor.
"Come on, mate. You need to get up." He heard Gregory Lestrade's voice in his ear, hand rubbing circles between John's shoulder blades. "It's been three weeks, now." He said softly.
John shook his head and buried his face in his hands. He heard Lestrade get up and leave him in the cramped space of the bathroom. John sighed in relief and laid his head on the cool tiles. The memories of his best friend were buzzing around in his head like bees, stinging him then fading away. No, they were wasps; they kept hitting him over and over again, making him cringe. He clenched his fists beside his head and suppressed a scream. Minutes later, he felt a small pile of fabric drop on him.
"Get in the shower, John. You're going to get cleaned up, and you're going to eat." Lestrade said slowly, as if he were talking to a small child. He picked John up and set him on his feet... Lestrade nodded tersely and left, closing the door behind him.
He looked down at the pile of clean clothes on the stained, otherwise-white tiled floor. He didn't want to think, he didn't want to talk, and he didn't want to exist. He shed his clothes and turned the water on, not caring that it was going to be ice cold when he stepped in. John leaned against the wall of the shower, letting the cold water fall on his skin.
It was an onyx headstone, sitting by itself in the graveyard. The wind tousled his hair as he thought about what to say. He was self-conscious even after Mrs. Hudson had left. He kept waiting for his friend to come up behind him and lecture him for rambling about to no one. Sentiment. "I was so alone," He began, feeling something catch in his throat. "And I owe you so much." He looked down, feeling the tears prick behind his eyes and placed a hand on the cold, unforgiving marble. "Look, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me." He took a deep breath before saying the words. "Don't. Be. Dead. Would you do that? Just for me, just... Stop it, stop this." He shook his head and walked away as he felt a tear roll down his cheek.
He bit the inside of his cheek and pushed the memory away. John stepped out of the shower and put the fresh clothes on. Lestrade was most likely going to be waiting for him, sitting where he once sat. The thought of discussing anything with anyone was almost vomit-inducing, so he swiftly opened the bathroom door, bolted down the stairs, and grabbed his coat before stepping into the frigid London air for the first time in weeks. He hailed a cab and slipped in, knowing exactly where he wanted to go. He told the cabbie to make a stop at the corner before going on their way. John bought fresh flowers and set them on his lap as he stared out the window absent-mindedly.
London, the city he loved, ran past him in a blur from the cab. Before he knew it, it had come to a stop outside the iron gates of the cemetery. He tipped the cabbie generously and walked quickly to the black marble headstone. The flowers he had placed there a week before were almost dead. John bent over and replaced the dead ones with the fresh ones.
The words came slowly to him. He felt the same self-consciousness he had felt a week before. No one was there. The air was stagnant, the birds were silent, and the cars were missing. It seemed the whole universe was waiting to see what John would say to his dead flat mate's grave.
He opened his mouth and waited. "Mycroft told me weeks ago that he was going to buy the flat from Mrs. Hudson so no one else would ever buy it." He started awkwardly. "I suppose 221B is just going to sit and rot because I never want to go back there. I'm not going to be able to live there anymore." He chuckled half-heartedly to himself. "I suppose that a bit hypocritical seeing as I didn't leave my room once in the past three weeks, but I'm going to look for another flat. I'm not going to touch your things or mess up your sock index, I promise."
John went forward and rested his hand on the cold, lifeless marble and said the words he said once before. "No one will ever convince me you told a lie." And he left.
It didn't take him long to find a suitable flat for himself; about two months. The money Sherlock had left him gave a wide berth for him to find a job. In the mean time, he was staying with his sister, Harry.
Harry was insufferable at the best of times, but thanks to Clara, he didn't get much in the way of half-arsed sympathies and well-wishes from her. He was forever grateful that Clara was there to distract Harry from John's deteriorating condition. John wasn't stupid; he knew what the grief was doing to him. He wasn't eating much or putting effort into his activities. He didn't need to consult his therapist to know that he was depressed.
No, I'm not going to. He thought to himself, shaking his head of the memories. He didn't think about Sherlock, or how he hated Ella Thompson, his therapist. He didn't think about how Sherlock suggested John stopped seeing her, or how much Sherlock detested her thoughts about how John was coping with civilian life. No, stop it, stop it now.
John lay back on his bed and stared up at the blue ceiling of his sister's guest room, trying to distract himself from his thoughts by analyzing his surroundings. The room smelled musty and stale as if it hadn't been used in years. Harry had only been living here for three or four years, so she probably didn't have many guests. The only furniture sitting in the room was a bed for one, a night stand, and a desk with no chair. There was a haphazard stack of papers, books, and notepads left on top of the desk. This furniture could have been what was left when Harry moved in, or possibly what had no place after Clara moved back with Harry for the umpteenth time. The carpet was matted and faded in some parts, obvious nail varnish and make up stains surrounding a certain area. This room could have belonged to a girl before Harry moved in. It couldn't have been Harry's doing because the carpet is far too worn for how stale and dusty the room was.
It was pointless, trying to deduce like he did. He sighed rather audibly and covered his face with his hands. You need to do it. He thought to himself. You need to go back to 221B and gather your things. It won't be that bad. Just throw everything into some bags and leave; it's as simple as that. John felt the frustration start to boil in his blood as he fought the urge to punch a hole in the wall.
"I know you're not okay." He heard a soft, breathy voice next to him. It could only belong to the kind-hearted Clara. John sat straight up to see Clara sitting on the floor by his bed. She got up to join him on his not-so-comfy mattress and plopped next to him. He studied her face and settled on her eyes, apologetic and knowing as always."You don't need to deny it, and I'm not going to make light of it to Harry. All I'm saying is that you should really consider making an appointment with Ella." She cupped his chin and placed a kiss on his forehead as a mother would do to her child. She left the room without another word.
Hope you liked this; I'll keep going if I get enough positive feedback. Please review! Give suggestions for what you might like me to do next, because I honestly have no idea.