John sat alone in his flat. It had already been six months after all... The flat he once shared with the world's only consulting detective was now covered in dust. John figured it was now time to clean up. There was no way in hell that he'd let the memory of his friend disappear into nothingness. That and John had developed panic induced asthma... So with a heavy heart and a mask, John began to clean. He'd leave the piles of stuff where they were, only straighter and dust free. John knew it had to be done. He was in the process of straightening a pile of books when the door to the building opened. Thinking it was Mrs Hudson with a potential flatmate, John scurried about and tried to finish the cleaning.
Boxes upon boxes of Sherlock's things lay strewn about the room, almost as haphazard as they had been before they were safely tucked away, ready for storage. John stood up and went to straighten himself up in the bathroom before meeting his potential flatmate. He could only pray to god that it wasn't another Sherlock fanatic. He'd had enough of them trying to buy their way into his home. The home he'd once shared with Sherlock. Dressed in a plain suit-something Sherlock would have worn- John limped his way back into the main room to wait for the next potential flatmate to show up. John must have fallen asleep on the couch, because he was awakened by the sound of creaking floorboards and knocking on the door. Looking up, John's vision was a bit blurry. With the aid of a cane, John hoisted himself off of the couch whilst ignoring the pain of having his left leg in a brace-he was still recovering from nerves being damaged after being hit by a cab after one of his many night terrors- and hobbled his way towards the door. "Sorry, I must have fallen asleep-..." John's voice trailed off as he stared at the figure standing in the doorway. John let out a sigh and a smile. Such a foolish thought to think that his deepest, most darkest secret wish would ever-could ever, be true: that Sherlock somehow managed to fool them all. It was just another applicant. John would just smile and turn him down by asking him to return the next day because he wasn't feeling too well. Which was the truth, after all. John wasn't feeling too well.
Since the funeral, John had fallen back into old habits. He didn't sleep because of the constant recurring nightmares of watching Sherlock jump off the roof. The nightmares of watching Sherlock's body hit the concrete sidewalk below. The feeling of his friend's pulse fade away into nothingness... John wouldn't eat, or rather couldn't. He didn't see the point now that his one and only friend lay dead in the ground decomposing. The very thought only made it all the more difficult to bring a piece of food to his lips. John apologized to the lad before closing the door. John's eyes began to burn as he rested against the archway. Enough. John had had enough. Letting the cane fall to the floor, John put his back to the wall and slid down as the first of many tears began to fall.