Put on your favourite angst music, something sad and maybe a little disturbing and imagine Dr John Watson alone at 221B. Arcade Fire is playing in my head, but anything maudlin will do. Get the scene?
He can't keep still - never comfortable - and he moves from room to room distractedly, returning often to gaze out the window, down the rain splattered street.
He sits in Sherlock's favourite chair, shifts uncomfortably and gets up again, striding purposely across the room to the kitchen. Then turns, and wanders absentmindedly into the bathroom, where he finds his toothbrush, unused, but with toothpaste ready on the brush end. He lifts it, looking at the object as if he's never seen it before, and then replaces it carefully on the sink.
An insistent knocking - Cooey! - Go away, Mrs Hudson!He waits in the dark until he hears the footsteps retreating - one - two - uneven down the stairs.
Later, he crouches in front of the open fridge for what may be minutes or possibly hours, the small light illuminating nothing for him, though there's food, his friends have seen to that. His haunches ache when he finally straightens, returning to his vigil at the window. Maybe what he sees will change his life. Unlikely.
No quick fix to make things right; I don't have an uncle named Bob.