A/N: Last night, my family and I went to my Dad's mom's house for Christmas Eve. The house was full of people who were talking and laughing. So full of life. Then, we went over there for lunch today. It was just her and us in the house. So empty. But it was still fun. As we sat around the table talking, the idea for this came into my head.
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John sat slumped in his chair, empty glass dangling loosely from numb fingers. Six years ago, he lost the only person who truly mattered. Six years ago, Sherlock Holmes jumped from the roof of St. Bart's. For those six years, John existed in a drunken state of nothingness. Now, he pulled himself together long enough to look around.
The flat was so empty, he realized, without Sherlock's deranged energy. There was no new case. There was no bored Sherlock sprawled on the couch complaining. There was no Sherlock shooting a smiley face into the wall. There was no Sherlock.
It finally hit him. Sherlock died. Sherlock was dead. He was never coming back. A tear dropped on his hand, and he studied the glistening drop. He raised the glass to his lips, only to remember that it was empty. With a disappointed sigh, John unsteadily heaved himself to his feet and stumbled into the kitchen. He poured another glass of whiskey and put the bottle back on the counter.
John weaved his way back to the sitting room and raised his glass to the smiley face on the wall. " `Ere's to you, Sherlock," he slurred. " `Ere's to you."