1 Month.
John sat up, gasping. He'd dreamed it again. Seen it again.
Sherlock fell. He hit the pavement. The blood… God, the blood had been so bright. Stark against the familiar, pale skin. Pooling on the pavement. And Sherlock's eyes…
He shook his head, running his hands through his hair. Dammit, he was tired of these dreams. He was tired of seeing Sherlock die in his mind's eye nearly every night. It hurt… It hurt a lot.
He swung his legs out of bed and stood, stretching. Another day at the surgery, trying to forget, keeping it together, working as though it were the most natural thing in the world. That was the hardest part: continuing. The world had, somehow, kept turning. And he had been forced to turn right along with it, as much as he'd desired to only lie in bed day in and day out. He'd actually done that, the first week. Just stayed in the flat. Stayed in bed. Eating very little, sleeping all day but never resting.
Then he'd had to learn how to keep turning with the world.
He'd tried therapy again, but he couldn't talk to her. He knew he should have opened up, should have 'gotten it out' as she said, but not to her. She just… She didn't understand it. No one did. They just… they didn't. Sherlock had. Sherlock had read him, known him, and understood him. After Sherlock, he doubted anyone ever would again.
He got ready, limping out the door.
"Take care, John." Mrs. Hudson said, as she did every morning. She'd been a Godsend, really. Making him eat, cleaning up where she could, chiding him for not sleeping. All the while reminding him that she was not his housekeeper.
He nodded to her and caught a cab to work. It was unsettling how soon after his week away from the world he'd settled back into routine. There had been a new receptionist hired while he was away, a girl named Margret or Mary or Margary or some such thing. She was nice enough, told him hello every morning, but he's only noted that she was new and went on.
"Morning," the new girl said politely, as she did every morning. He nodded politely and carried on.
Sarah'd been keeping an eye on him. Everyone had, really. It was appreciated, but he was surviving, somehow. It was difficult, but he managed to put up the front for work. At home… Well, they couldn't see him when he was home, so what did it matter?
On lunch break that day, as he did every day, he merely sat in the break room, staring off into space. He didn't eat lunch any more. He hardly ate anything anymore. Nothing tasted good.
Today was a little different, though. He had company. It was the new receptionist. She was sitting as the opposite end of the table, reading and eating a salad. The silence between them was comfortable, John was surprised to find. Most people either wanted to 'talk about it' or they just left the room. Left him alone.
Somehow this woman was managing to simultaneously leave him alone and keep him company. He found he didn't mind at all. It was very strange, but he didn't complain. He merely sat back; eyes closed, until his lunch break was over, then went back to work. The whole time, she never said a word. He didn't think she even looked up from her book or her food.
For once, at least for a little while, his mind was on something besides Sherlock.