"One year."
John blankly stared at the smooth, black stone before him. A golden engraved name: Sherlock Holmes. It had been a year since the light in John's eyes fell from the top of St. Bard's and shattered against the pavement.
Bloody.
Broken.
John initially felt overwhelming sadness. Who wouldn't, after their best friend jumped off a god damn building? But, as weeks bled out to months, the sadness gave way to numbness.
He never knew that'd he'd feel so completely numb again. Like after Afghanistan. Like when the stars shone dull and every day ended before it had begun.
Until he met Sherlock.
And then there was colour again.
Every single thing that had been bright and beautiful and exciting in his time with Sherlock faded into some dull shade of grey. His world had gone from dull, to brilliant.
But now he was right back where he started.
His phone vibrated.
I may have found a potential job for you, John.
-MH
not today mycroft.
-JW
I see.
-MH
Well, let me know if you are interested. You need to start doing something, rather than sitting around that flat.
-MH
A soft breeze tugged the grass along in the cemetery. The leaves fluttered softly, a few breaking off their branches and falling to the ground. John had to admit - it was a pretty place.
A depressing, yet beautiful place.
After he had been bouncing the bouquet against his leg a few minutes, John set down the flowers he'd brought. Molly bought them for the flat. But John didn't have colours anymore.
Sherlock had his colours.
He would keep the flowers.
John waited another few moments, before letting a small sigh escape. He turned around and began to make the walk home. Mycroft offered a car, but John had no desire to take it.
He shuffled away, limping slightly, cane held tightly in his right hand.