It was terribly hollow, empty; a seemingly endless pit where daily routines became futile, conversation became pointless. Breathing was dull. Eating was hard. And it had been exactly 6 months, 2 weeks and 6 days since the death of his best friend and the world's only consulting detective.
"But who's counting," said a small, sardonic voice in the back of his head.
John Watson sat as he always did, in the chair facing an eerily empty sofa on which a violin was perched gently against the pillow. A cold cup of tea sat on the table, the only fresh thing in the room, that only item that wasn't coated in a thick layer of dust. But he couldn't bring himself to drink it.
Mrs Hudson walked in quietly, placed a tray on the table and took away the cup of tea. She and frequent visits from Lestrade, Molly and even Mycroft kept him in something attempting to resemble good health, or at the very least made sure he had food in the fridge and took almost regular showers. They could only manage his exterior though, and even bright-spirited Mrs Hudson had given up on trying to get through to him after the third month without Sherlock. Now she flashed him the occasional pitiful smile between bringing him sandwiches and cups of tea which he rarely touched unless made to. He knew he owed her so much, should say thankyou or just nod or give her some minor form of acknowledgement, but he had taken to silence unless he was being subjected to conversation. He helped out the police with minor investigations to sustain a living, found himself noticing more than he ever would have. It hurt, it reminded him of everything, but he couldn't go back to being a doctor and remember how lost he'd been and the hope and excitement he'd found at 221B Baker Street, how oddly amazing his friend had been and how everything was better, even the limp, which had returned two weeks after he'd seen the detective fall to his death. It felt like John had died, too.

Mrs Hudson walked back into the room with a hopeful air, only to have her face fall at the untouched tray of food. John found her boundless optimism endearing, but he couldn't… just couldn't do anything. He could barely help himself, lacked the energy to please everybody else. He knew Mycroft wanted closure on Sherlock, wanted to hear about his last moments. He knew Lestrade thought he was the next best thing and wanted more help than he was getting. He knew dear old Mrs Hudson just wanted him to talk and eat and sleep. But he couldn't.

She shuffled over, grabbed the tray and murmured to herself, "We need milk."
John looked up at her. She seemed to have aged 20 years in the space of 6 months and her smile lines were replaced with weary marks across her forehead from frowning and crying. Countless grey crept through the folds of her usually immaculate hair. He felt a wave of guilt at failing to notice how badly the people around him had been affected. Selfish.
"Milk, right. Got it," he declared, standing up and grabbing his coat. Mrs Hudson looked shell-shocked.
"Are you sure, dear?" She asked hesitantly.
"Of course," he replied, giving her a hug, hoping he could fix something. Time to get his act together. Even if it was just enough to fool the people that cared about him.

He walked through Regents Park, rain heavy against his back and neck as he refused to turn his coat collar up, almost laughing at how little thing like that could remind him of Sherlock and bring back so much. He seemed to black out during the walk, not thinking, his legs moving purely from chemical memory.
It wasn't an uncommon feeling.
Turning a corner, he walked into the nearest corner shop, sighing and marching towards the freezer section, pulling open the door and grabbing a heavy, litre-carton of milk.
The door swung shut.
John stopped, and groaned. The reflection.
Sherlock stared at him from the glass, cold, calculating, looking somewhat uneasy. It wasn't new, it had happened a few times. Mostly in the first few weeks. But he couldn't deal with this, not now, not when he could get better.
"John."
'No, no, god no, please no. He doesn't talk, he's never spoken. I can't do this.'
"John Watson."
His breathing was heavy and laboured. He pinched his forehead, closed his eyes, hoped the man behind the counter didn't notice the tears rolling down his cheeks.
"Go away," he hissed, not turning around. "Stop this, you bastard. Leave me alone."
"John-"
"I said go away."

A hand, on his shoulder.

He drew a rickety breath, lifted a shaking hand and touched the one gripping his shoulder. Too real, far too real.

Turning around, and 'No, no. He looks like him, it's too good.'

"John, it's me."
"No."
"I promise."

He looked Sherlock in the eyes. Too good to be true. But it was all there, every frown line and curly piece of hair and prominent cheekbones and sharp jawline.
"Please, Sherlock…"
The elderly man behind the counter didn't seem to find this conversation strange. He dared to hope, for a second.
"John, I'm sorry."

The milk fell to the floor, splitting and spilling everywhere, finally getting the attention of the shop owner.

And it was him and the tears rolled freely. John opened his mouth and left it like that while he found the words.
"Do you even know-" he choked.

"I'm so terribly sorry. John, let's go back home and just let me explain everything."
"6 months-"
"I know."

John Watson paused. He composed himself, regulated his breathing, straightened his coat. Sherlock let him, didn't say anything.
The silence hung. The detective allowed him all the time he needed. He began to speak, choked, closed his mouth.
He looked up, hesitated again- drew back a fist and punched Sherlock hard and square in the face. The surprised detective clattered to the floor, stunned, before slowly picking himself up, shaking his head and holding his nose. It bled freely and a magnificent purple bruise already began to form on his cheek.
"Fair enough." He said calmly. "Let's go."