The door swung open and he closed his eyes and walked in.
He took a deep breath, and when he let it out, the sound was nearly indecent.
Walking up and down the aisles, brushing the spines of every book on the shelves, he allowed himself to relax, as he only ever did in the confines of this room.
It seemed a shame that the riches of this room only be beheld by one person, but John wasn't ready yet to open it up yet to anyone else.
"You can't shut yourself off this way, John," Mycroft had warned. But then again, when had anyone ever actually listened to Mycroft's advice?
2 years 11 months 13 days. Not that John was counting; the numbers just added up in his head. Every day another tally on the infinite list. There was almost a sense of pride in reaching a new milestone. The three year anniversary was coming up so soon and John was no where closer to recovery than he had been on day one. He took a fierce pride in the fact that Sherlock's kitchen experiment table had not been touched, and that his smell had not yet been completely cleansed from the apartment.
Or maybe that was just in his head. Who knows.
He still slept at 221B Baker Street, but that was about it. Other than that, he spent most of his time in the library. This library. The one he had slowly constructed after… Yeah. Every book, every piece; a memoir; a tribute to the greatest man he had ever known.
And that was that. John and his books.
23 years 9 months 3 days.
John and his books.