Broken
His mind was like a clock, that was turning and churning out of control. It was the moment he realized what exactly Sherlock was going to do. He saw his body fall through the sky, and he just ran. He ran toward his flatmate, his partner, his best friend and hoped beyond hope that the evidence before him was false. He hoped that it was his eyes playing tricks on him, just like he had hoped in the war. But, John knew from experience that no, his mind was not playing tricks on him, and he hated to admit that. So he ran. For the sake of hoping. For his partner. For his best friend. His best friend. Did that mean anything to Sherlock? Of course not. Because he was a machine.
And then he saw it. Proof. That Sherlock really was dead. It wasn't a trick of the light. He grabbed his hand, in an attempt to feel Sherlock's pulse. There was none. Blood matting his dark curls, his piercing blue eyes gone, lifeless. Those eyes will never look at me ever again.
Vaguely he heard the paramedics pushing people away from Sherlock.
"Oh, Jesus…Oh, God no" John said, pushing himself away. It seemed so surreal, and he just couldn't accept it.
The funeral was a quiet ceremony. Sherlock did have more enemies than friends, after all. It was Mycroft who arranged it, since Mycroft was family. Sherlock would have hated it. He would have hated his gravestone too. It was nothing grand, or dramatic, or any of that. It was simple, black, and plain, adorned only with his name, no birthdate nor deathdate, but simply his name. John, on the other hand, thought it suited him right. A mysterious gravestone for a mysterious man.
God, John missed him so much. He couldn't turn around in his own flat without being reminded of Sherlock. John was alone in the world, again. It was a dreadful feeling.
John couldn't bear to be there. It hurt too much. So he packed up his things and left 221B Baker Street.
John found an accommodation that was just right. It was a bit on the small side, but he couldn't afford anything better. He went back to work, or at least attempted to. Sarah was awfully nice. Nicer than she had been since their break up. Everyone was awfully nice. But John saw the pity in their eyes when they thought he wasn't looking. He saw the pity even when they were looking. It hurt, too much.
Unsurprisingly his limp came back. He used that dreadful cane all the time. God, he hated it. Just like how he hated that Sherlock was gone.
John managed to see two patients before going to his office and shutting the door. He couldn't help these people, not when he was barely able to help himself. He slid to the floor, his legs unable to support his weight. And he cried. John, veteran of the war, soldier, army doctor, was on the floor of his office, crying. He felt like such a baby.
When he was able to calm down enough, he left the office. Sarah let him go without saying anything. John wasn't sure he was able to come back.
John went to Sherlock's grave, and told him what his day was like. It seemed to make things better. It was a feeble attempt at coping. But it was so tough. When John was diagnosed with PTSD he was able to cope. He was getting better. And then, Sherlock came around, and John's limp vanished and things were much better. Then, everything changed when Sherlock jumped. He hated it so much, and he kept asking himself, why? Why would Sherlock jump? It just didn't make sense. God, he missed Sherlock so much. Sherlock just fixed everything and now, it all shattered. John had to face it, he was broken.