It has been three years.
Three years since his best friend Sherlock Holmes plummeted down St. Barts to his death. Overall, it wasn't really a story that shook the nation, more of a minor scandal that made the front pages of the tabloids for several days. Sherlock Holmes wasn't some famous celebrity or politician, just a minor consulting detective with a funny cap. London didn't weep for long; she was a busy city after all. After a while, even Lestrade, Molly, Mrs Hudson and everyone else who was remotely close to Sherlock stopped mourning and returned to their normal lives. Everyone except for John.
Normal lives. John could hardly even remember how his life was before Sherlock Holmes. But that's that over now, Sherlock is gone for good and he had left John behind. That was what John was now, a shadow of the strong, sturdy, stoic, steadfast man who everyone had assumed would be able to resist the storm that Sherlock was. But John was only too easily and too eager to be swept up in the whirlwind that was Sherlock Holmes and left behind just as easily.
"Let me through."
John opened his eyes.
A sudden flash of pain brought John reeling back to earth. He was alone, in his flat and had fallen asleep on his favourite armchair. His head was beginning to hurt and his ears were ringing. His untrimmed nails were digging into his palm so hard it was beginning to draw blood. Sighing, John unclenched his fists and took a few deep calming breaths.
"Sherlock." He whispered.
Although it hurt, John knew too well that it was the first of many flashbacks that come to him every day.
It hurt, it always did and it always will, just not so much anymore. John still recalls everything that happened, how could he forget anyways? When every time all he sees when he closes his eyes is Sherlock falling to his death, his great coat billowing behind him like some iconic superhero cape. Except Sherlock wasn't a hero, he had told John often enough that heroes didn't exist, and if they did, he wouldn't be one of them. Everything that Sherlock had ever said, pleasant or otherwise, would never be forgotten, least of all by John. And like everything else Sherlock, the memory of his fall has been completely seared into John's brain.
He couldn't even remember how his life was before Sherlock, or how his life was before the war. It was probably dull and boring, he mused, chuckling to himself, ignoring the gaping hole that was expanding in this chest and the pang of longing he suddenly felt for his best friend. "Dull and boring." The words most often used by Sherlock to describe anyone who lived a normal life.
"God now he's got me saying it," groaned John.
Even with Sherlock gone, he'd still manage to get up in John's head
Sherlock, was anything and everything to John, and he always will be.