Exactly seven months ago John Watson had moved out. He'd taken most of his belongings from 221B and brought them over to the flat he now shared with Mary, in Soho Square. Sherlock had seen the day that John would leave coming from a mile away, the day when running around London at ridiculous hours chasing after criminals would get too much. The day when John realised he needed stability in his life rather than chaos and a hectic lifestyle, Sherlock knew the day would arrive he just didn't want to believe it.
Sherlock sat in his usual chair opposite what used to be John's. Seated in his chair, he wore his blue dressing gown and held a glass in his left hand, filled to the brink with whiskey. In his other hand was a cigarette and a nicotine patch. His eyes flickered between the two and then back to John's chair once again. He kept up this movement until it formed into a routine, although most days a glass of whiskey did not accompany him. But today was a little different than all the other days that had passed Sherlock throughout the week, today marking the seventh month he had painfully endured without John Watson by his side. The day that two full glasses of whiskey followed by another three had unintentionally found their way into Sherlock Holmes' hands.
He'd spotted John one day on his way to Scotland Yard, he'd been so occupied thinking about the case that he failed to look when crossing the road. He looked up in just enough time to dodge the oncoming cab that hurdled towards him, upon looking up and ignoring the honking from the driver, Sherlock noticed a small figure in the corner of his eye. John. Sherlock froze unsure of how to react, inside he cursed and swore of his heart and body's betrayal. Sherlock felt weak and shut his eyes instantly wishing to be back in the four safe walls of 221B, he would have remained still and calm if it wasn't for the noise that filled his ears. Sherlock still stood motionless in the middle of the road, traffic hurtling towards him, if it wasn't for the shove that came from behind him one of the seven cars would have stripped his body from his soul. Seconds later he was on the floor face laying against the gravel with his savour nowhere to be seen.
It had come to Sherlock's attention that his 'living life without John Watson' plan was proving quite a struggle. Of course John and Mary had tried to visit many of times, but Sherlock couldn't muster up the strength to see them and to fake a smile of happiness in their company. Although Sherlock would never bring himself to ask Mycroft for help, Mycroft knew he needed it and informed the soon-to-be Watson household that Sherlock had left for a case over in New York. When hearing of this John was shocked, the look on his face displayed the pain of finding out from Mycroft and not Sherlock himself, but instead of fully showing it he nodded his head and asked Mycroft to pass onto Sherlock, best wishes from himself. Moments later he left the café with Mary by his side as pain and despair clouded his vision and as they walked home John suddenly missed the hectic lifestyle he once had more than ever.
Since Mycroft had informed John and Mary of Sherlock's departure, Sherlock had confined himself to the living room and occasionally the bathroom of 221B, only leaving for the occasional shopping trip for cigarettes and vital items for his experiments. But once six months had passed Sherlock's brain had hit a critical stage, forced to remain almost still due to the lack of cases and work that once used to flood his brain with thoughts and chemicals. Now leaving it to rely on mundane experiments such as the length of time it took for fungus to grow on a human toe nail.