It was the day after the funeral. As expected, the weather outside was miserable. Just a constant downpour of rain. And it matched his mood. John was sitting in his usual seat in their flat. Well, he figured, it was his flat now. But it was becoming clear that he would have no intentions in staying in 221B Baker Street for long. All he did that day was listen to the rain fall, the thunder rattling the window pane, and the quiet classical music he had on in the background. He stared at the empty seat across from him, the one Sherlock usually occupied. Every once in awhile, he swore he saw Sherlock's figure sitting there, but by the end of the day he told himself it was flashbacks. Memories of a friend that wasn't there anymore. It was his mind playing little tricks on him. Trying to fill the void that was Sherlock.
It was late into the night when he finally stirred from his position, sitting up more properly, hearing his joints creak from not being moved all day. With a loud sigh, John stood up and went to turn off the music. Silence fell.
And he didn't like the silence one bit. It left him alone to this thoughts, let him over think, to dwell upon subjects he did not wish to. John turned back on the music, careful not to make it too loud as to disturb Mrs. Hudson one floor down. He headed for the door, back against the empty room. He glanced about it, remembering every single memory. Sherlock dashing about the room looking for his stash, lounging around the coach bored out of his mind, pacing the floor in deep though, playing the violin by the window. It was all too much.
"Tomorrow." John said to himself. Tomorrow, he'd leave.
This day started the many days that would follow Sherlock's fall.