I stare at the ceiling. My eyes trace every bit of crack, bump, or dent I see. There's a hound, in the left corner - something about it is distorted. It looks too big, even though it's a crack. I realize why I think that and force my eyes away. A pill bottle, on the other side of the room. I look away. A head, staring, on a tray - presumably from the fridge. Two mugs, striped, so close to each other they touch. Right above me, a deerstalker hat. It's no use. I close my eyes.
It's year, today. A year and I still wake up every morning, remember, and feel like this. Today isn't even worse than any other day. There is no such thing as worse than any other day. I'm not extra sad because it's the anniversary. I'm not particularly upset. I've never been sad or upset. I wish I could be sad or upset. There is no sad or upset - no happy, angry, tired. Just empty. Every day is just empty.
I was told it would get easier once I accepted it, or once I let out my anger, even with time. That's what they said. They said if I wrote a letter saying everything I never did, it would ease the pain. If I got a job, it would distract me. If I went to the pub, or got a girlfriend, or moved out. "It will help you hurt less."
Well, that was their problem - it didn't hurt. I was never in pain. I never wanted to cry or grieve or any of that bollocks. I just didn't want to move. For the first few weeks I would - I would get up and make myself breakfast, pour two cups of tea, and sit at the table. My usual routine for almost two years. After a minute I would realize the second was waiting for a man who wouldn't come, and a hole would appear. Just this great, huge, gaping emptiness as I remembered the man the world would never have again. No pain. Just a hole. It always took all day before I could bring myself to touch the tea.
Eventually I stopped. Not because I was finally able to "let go." Because finally I understood constantly, the hole had become so large and constant that I could never forget long enough to get that far into making our tea. I began to get out of bed later and later - what was the point if he wouldn't be there to stare into a microscope or find some new, surprisingly creative way to call me an idiot? I had money left, and even if I hadn't, Mycroft kept sending me an allowance, or sorts. His consolation for what he did to his brother… to me.
After a while Molly stopped visiting. Sally stopped trying to apologize. Gregson stopped calling. Lestrade and Mike Stamford are the only ones who stuck around - they were the only ones who were actually my friends before.
The next eleven months were filled with pubs, failed girlfriends, therapy, and emptiness. Every day was the same. I would have done anything to feel anything - even depression. I tried. Sometimes I would get into a quip with Lestrade and forget for just a second - but then I'd remember how I met him, and it was empty again. Just empty. I would force women away with my inability to feel anything - I felt bad about Mary. I would have fallen for her, hard, under any other conditions. I would forget about jobs I had. I did everything my therapist told me to do - wrote letters, tried to be angry, tried to cry. I got nowhere. Mrs. Hudson was the only person who never made me feel slightly better, so I didn't dare to leave the flat.
And now it's been a year. A year since the fall. A year of grave visits. A year of being told by random strangers that I'd fallen for the biggest scam in a century. A year since the last words I said to his face were angry. A year since he left. A year since he made the ultimate sacrifice just to protect his friends.
And I'm empty. I can't take staring at the ceiling any more. I don't want to move. I don't want to face my empty flat, with empty cups of tea, and his bloody empty chair. I don't want Mycroft to come today - special, because it was a year ago today. First time I'll have seen him since. I don't want to talk to Greg or get a call from Molly, who will also be aware. I don't want to do anything. I don't see the point. He won't be here. I want to lay here and not move until I either forget or die - whichever comes first. Why bother with the rest of my life?
The kettle whistles. Mrs. Hudson's making me tea - of course she would know, and do everything she could to try to make it better. I want to tell her to bugger off. She's the only one who's helped. I sit up. Somewhere between the kitchen and the table, pyjama trousers and a robe end up on me. There are two cups. She must be staying for breakfast. I take mine and sit at the counter, waiting for her to get out of the bathroom.
Some part of my mind, beyond the emptiness and the annoyance at being disturbed, registers that her footsteps are too heavy. I grab an old scarf of Sherlock's and replace it on the door knob, so I can remember to put it away properly later. Before I sit again, I hear a voice behind me.
"I hope you still take your tea the same way - it has been a year."
Sometime between hearing those words and giving into the blackness that suddenly threatens from all sides, I register whose voice it is, and understand, with only a moment in which to feel anger, joy, love, and hatred all at once - the first emotions I've felt in a year - who the first person I see upon waking up will be.
"Sherlock-"