Rain patters against the window as Sherlock begins to wake. He closes his eyes tighter in protest of the start of the day, but eventually he gives in and rolls over in bed. It's been getting harder everyday, to summon up the will to wake. Now that he's left for good, the empty space John left has widened into a dark chasm in Sherlock's soul. The soul he didn't know existed until John Watson stumbled into his life.
I drink good coffee every morning.
Comes from a place that's far away
And when I'm done I feel like talking
Without you here there is less to say.
He shuffles slowly to the sitting room where Mrs. Hudson has laid out breakfast. Coffee, imported from Columbia, and some dry toast. He hardly eats as much as he should. No one there to guilt him into nourishment. He's also switched to drinking coffee in the mornings. Tea reminds him too much of John.
He sits drinking his good coffee, idly leafing through the morning's correspondence. One catches his attention and he opens his mouth to ask John what he thinks of the potential case. Then he remembers. John's left, married off like he was just an average member of society, though Sherlock knows he's anything but ordinary. He closes his mouth with a snap, suddenly having nothing left to say, not even to the empty air beside him.
I don't want you thinking I'm unhappy
In fact what is closer to the truth
That if I live till I was a hundred and two
I just don't think I'll ever get over you.
As he's about to give up on his letters, an envelope catches his eye. It's John's handwriting, he'd know that doctor scrawl anywhere. He debates even bothering to open it, knowing it will only further serve to tear his heart out, but he was never one for impulse control. It's a simple letter, laced with concern and a little bit of longing. John has invited him to drop by for tea this week, to catch up and see how his cases are going. Sherlock already knows he's not going to show up. It will hurt them both that much more if John sees just how miserable he is without him, while he's basking in marital bliss. And Sherlock could never hide his true emotions from John, so it's better to claim to be burdened with important cases and requests from abroad.
I'm no longer moved to drink strong whiskey
I shook the hand of time and I knew
That if I live till I can no longer climb my stairs
I just don't think I'll ever get over you.
Lacking the motivation and desire to move from his armchair, Sherlock glances towards the mantle. He gazes contemplatively at his morocco case, the decanter of fine brandy. He briefly considers escaping into the void of numbness, yet he cannot even summon up the will to do so. The escape would only make the return to reality exponentially more agonizing. A sudden rush of despair and hopelessness envelopes him, as he realizes this emptiness left by one John Watson will never be filled by anything else- not brandy, not cocaine, not even his adventurous cases.
He slowly rises from his chair, intent on returning to his bed to sleep the day away. At the bottom of the stairs, he pauses. So simple a task now seems daunting without the reward at the top of the stairs. He looks down, as a shaky, defeated sigh escapes him and a solitary tear cascades down his cheek.
You're face it dances and it haunts me
Voice still ringing in my ears
I still feel pieces of your presence here
Even after all these years.
With all the effort he can gather, he makes his way up the stairs towards his bedroom. A ghost of sound reaches his ears, an echo of John's laughter floating past. He stops and turns towards John's room. He knows he's not there, it's illogical to even entertain the thought, but once again he's lacking in impulse control. He pushes open the door to the room he can't bear to set foot in since its vacancy. Bare furniture coated with a film of dust is all that stares back at him. A solitary waistcoat draped over the desk chair is all that remains here of John. Once again he is overcome by a profound, bone deep sadness that he just can't seem to shake. He knows it's a feeling that will plague him for the rest of his existence, only alleviated in the slim chance that his companion leaves his perfectly happy life to return to Baker Street. His logical mind quickly reminds him of the odds of that happening.
I don't want you thinking I don't get asked to dinner
Cause I'm here to say that I sometimes do
Even though I may soon feel the touch of love
I just don't think I'll ever get over you.
He shuts the door, and turns to go back to his own space, retreat into the darkness. He hears laughter once again but it's much too feminine to be John's voice. This thought brings a touch of a smile to his face, but it is gone once he realizes the laughter is real and coming from downstairs. Making his way to the sitting room, he sees the source of the laughter, Irene Adler, chatting up Mrs. Hudson. She takes in his appearance and sighs as if greeting a muddied, unruly child. He glares at her, daring her to comment on his sorry state. Mrs. Hudson escapes to neutral territory while they stare each other down. Irene makes herself at home as she chastises him and insists he clean himself up and accompany her to dinner. Sighing, he knows he will agree, if only for the sake of having something to think about besides John.
So he'll escort Irene to dinner, feign interest in her tales of adventures abroad and pretend that he's not falling to pieces. Which he isn't. His internal destruction has already occurred, suddenly and violently, the second the last of John's things were out the door. It's not that he doesn't care for her, he does. But his fire for her is nothing compared to the consuming blaze that burns for John.
Even if I live to be a hundred and two
I just don't think I'll ever get over you.
He'll go on just like he has, a shell of his formerly vibrant self, ghosting through the motions. He'll take cases, solve the unsolvable, and perpetuate his legacy of genius. But none of it will feel real, feel like really living. He'll go on, until the pieces of his shattered heart cease functioning or if a case leads him down a deadly path, he'll go on. But even if he survives what danger he puts himself through, until he's an old man of a hundred and two years, it won't matter in the slightest because he'll never get over one Doctor John H. Watson.