For the first month, John was blank. He didn't visit the cemetery again after the funeral. After a brief stay with an old army friend, he went back to the flat on Baker Street. Neither he nor Mrs. Hudson had changed a thing. Sherlock's clutter was all in its chaos, just as he had left it. John went to work and came home again. He went to the shops and bought the same groceries. Enough for two. Half always spoiled and got thrown out. His friends and colleagues worried about him, but as he never responded to any of their consolations or their scoldings, no one was sure how to help, other than to keep a close eye on him.
After that first month of shock, a floodgate of sorts opened up. He quit his job; too many patients only wanted to see the infamous victim of the mad Sherlock Holmes' ruse. Anyway, Mycroft has supplemented his bank account and Mrs. Hudson hadn't asked for rent since the fall. For the first time, John went to his sister for "comfort," which for Harry was always found in a bottle. More than a month passed with John spending the majority of his nights going home with various women from various bars. None of them lasted long. None of them ever saw the inside of 221B. The only nights John spent in his own bed were sober and alone.
Mycroft and John's latest therapist were preparing an intervention when John simply stopped. At this point, it seemed that John was finally going to express his grief in a "socially acceptable" manner. He restarted his therapy sessions. He cried more than once. His transgressions of the previous weeks were avoided, however. When his therapist attempted to talk to him about it, John got up and walked out. Not wanting to provoke the doctor into abandoning his therapy again, the topic remained untouched.
John found a new job on the opposite end of London. The commute was long, but it was refreshing, being in unfamiliar places, seeing different people. People still recognized him occasionally, but the instances became less frequent. Women in his office were friendly, and a little too eager to assist Dr. Watson or bring him baked goods that they all claimed were homemade. John caught on that they were all actually bought from the same bakery a few blocks away from the hospital. He politely turned down their advances until they finally stopped.
He began having meals regularly with Mrs. Hudson. Their conversations were generally light and generic, Mrs. Hudson inquiring about John's work, John complaining about his patients. A façade of normality settled around Baker Street.
One day, John left work early due to a lack of patients. He found himself at home, looking desolately around the quiet flat. It still looked exactly as it did months before, aside from the dust accumulating on Sherlock's things. John had done all he could to not be alone in the flat for as long as possible, but there he was. Mrs. Hudson was out of town for a few days. John couldn't think of a place to go or anyone to call up. For the first time, John Watson felt haunted by the flat around him.
There was a stack of broken down cardboard boxes sitting in the back of his closet, left over from when he moved in. They'd been kept because John wasn't sure how long he'd be staying at the time. He rushed now to retrieve them. Nearly tripping back down the stairs in his haste, he threw them down on the floor. Almost frantically, he put the boxes together and started stowing papers and notes and books into them. All the clutter in the kitchen, on the floor, anything that hadn't been touched in nearly eight months, it all went into the boxes. He handled it all with an urgent care; he didn't want any of it ripped or ruined, he just needed it out of his sight.
Finally, John stood panting in the middle of the sitting room amid boxes full of memories. His eyes were watery; he told himself it was from the dust he stirred up. He looked around at his work for a brief moment before dropping into his chair, holding his face in his hands. It couldn't have been more than ten minutes that he was sitting there when he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. As Mrs. Hudson stepped in, knocking on the open door quietly, she opened her mouth to ask a question. She was silenced by the scene in front of her, and weaved her way through the boxes. She laid a hand on John's shoulder and stood silently for a moment.
"Getting started on spring cleaning a bit early, are we? It's awfully dusty in here, John. Perhaps we should open a window…" John didn't move. Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips and sighed. Without another word, she removed her hand and left the room.
John sat there for only a few minutes after the landlady had vacated the flat. Clearing his throat, he straightened up in the chair and looked around, taking inventory of the number of boxes. He picked up the one closest to him and debated what to do with it. The one room in the flat that had escaped John's scouring was Sherlock's bedroom. Swallowing heavily, he nudged the door open with his shoulder. He took a deep breath of the still, musty air. Compared to the rest of the flat, which had constantly been buried beneath piles of case-related clutter and remnants and notes on experiments, the bedroom was surprisingly neat. Granted, John noted that Sherlock had rarely spent an entire night's sleep in his own room. He had normally dozed in his chair, like a cat; never fully asleep, and easily brought back to consciousness by the smallest of stimuli.
John shook himself out of his reverie and set the box in the corner of the room. Without another look around, he left the room. He had all the boxes stored in the bedroom in short order. When his task was done, he stood in the doorway, looking like he might say something. He only sniffed and glanced around one last time. Then he turned and left, shutting the door behind him.
It wasn't terribly late, but John felt drained. He found some leftovers Mrs. Hudson had left for him in the fridge. He stood at the counter, eating and drinking a glass of scotch. He hadn't drank since his "break," but he felt that today had been as good an excuse as any to indulge himself. Finishing up, he dropped his plate into the sink and refilled his glass. Draining it again, he trudged up the stairs and fell into bed.