John was sitting on his chair, a cup of cold tea in his lap. He was simply sitting there, staring at Sherlock's empty space.
John did that a lot these days. He would just sit there for hours, lost in thought. Sometimes silent tears rolled down his face. Mrs. Hudson had walked in sometimes, only to hurry out. She didn't like seeing John like that. She had tried to move on from Sherlock. Slowly, she was coping. But John wasn't getting any better.
Mrs. Hudson had to take care of John. He forgot to eat, sleep, and exercise. If she had not been there to help him, he probably would just sit on his chair all day.
John was drenched in grief. He missed Sherlock so much. Every time he thought of those cheekbones, the bright eyes, the violin playing... It felt like something was squeezing his heart.
That is, if he had a heart left. His heart had shattered the moment Sherlock fell off of that building. His heart broke in to a billion little pieces, never to be repaired.
The only way John would go back to normal is if Sherlock came back.
But that wasn't going to happen. It couldn't happen.
It was impossible.
"Nothing is impossible," Sherlock whispered from outside, staring sadly at the familiar window from the street below.