During the first few months after Sherlock's suicide, John Hamish Watson did not feel sad. He did not feel devastated, depressed, heartbroken or any emotion, for that matter. Because you can't feel empty. You can't feel the nothing which fills the mangled, gaping hole, the hopeless, foreboding abyss of the loss of the only person who ever really mattered. Before Sherlock, John merely had a couple of inconsistent acquaintances, Mike Stamford, for example, and a sister who's conversations with John only ever consisted of complaints about either her apparently unfaithful partner Clara or the increasing price of alcohol. Lestrade would undoubtedly remain clueless as to how to deal with John's undisguised grief and would eventually, inevitably, lose contact with this frightening shell of a man he used to know so well. Worrying Mrs Hudson would cause her stress, therefore putting unwanted and unnecessary strain on her deteriorating hip, which was the last thing John wanted. Thus, John Watson was utterly alone. He had packed up his things and moved out of 221B Baker Street and back into his old apartment, grey and lifeless, rather like himself. He stopped taking his route to work via Scotland Yard, stopped going to Chinese restaurants for dim sum and eventually stopped being John Hamish Watson altogether and started to be someone he didn't quite know himself.
Sherlock Holmes however, was living quite contentedly in the company (and apartment) of Molly Hooper. Well, when one says contentedly, in this situation, they really mean in agony. Had Sherlock been able to reveal himself to John immediately after his 'death', he would have gladly done so. But John's mind, as Sherlock had so often reassured him, was not only placid and vacant, but straightforward. And although Sherlock, the heartless sociopath that he was, was not incredibly learned in social skills, he knew that in allowing John to know that he still existed, he would be putting John's mental stability at a huge risk and would undoubtedly ruin their friendship. Sherlock often would sit, knees hunched up close to his chest, on Molly's couch listing all the possible ways he could resurrect from the dead without causing John's inevitable mental breakdown, which usually ended up with Sherlock dragging his hands through his dark, curly locks and momentarily fisting them tight, before shouting at Molly for gently rearranging his latest experiment and glare at her run from the room with tears in her large, mouse-like eyes. The worst thing about this whole situation was the ridiculous, stupid fact that Sherlock actually cared in the first place. Why did he care? Why should he care about John? Sherlock Holmes was a legitimate genius; he did not have time for mere feelings, emotions. And yet, he did care. He cared a considerable amount, actually. That was made clear to him when he realised that he was willing to – and did – risk his life for John, and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade of course, but John was priority. 'Sentiment', he had said to Irene Adler all those months previously, 'is found only the losing side.' How right he had been.
John meanwhile, hopelessly meandered the various different streets of London, trying, after all eleven months, to pull the mangled remains of his life back together. Trying to secure a job. Trying to secure his financial risks. Trying to secure his mental stability. He was back to square one, back to where he had been before Sherlock. He had always felt similar to a dull moth next to Sherlock's brilliant flame of intelligence, hovering in the comfort of the warmth and light, but knowing all too soon that he would be burned out by Sherlock's brilliance. Without that flame, it seemed, John was lost.
Molly adored Sherlock's presence; the endless monotony of his somewhat unnerving habit of laying on the couch, his hands in a prayer position beneath his chin, the numerous human toes cluttering the kitchen table, Even when he insulted her intelligence and repeatedly assured her how simple minded she was - which was very often and deemed to be his favourite pastime since the lack of Anderson. But the thing that Molly Hooper loved most about Sherlock was the fact that he had chosen her to help him, that he trusted her the most. But she knew how fruitless tight-fitting tops and ridiculously priced lipsticks were, as not only would Sherlock not notice them (and if he did, he would undoubtedly 'delete' them) but through the process make Molly again realise that although she mattered to Sherlock, she would never be more than a friend, a companion, to him. Because there were no two people suited to each other more than Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson.
How long Sherlock would last without John, she did not know.