Naked... The perfect word to describe how John felt as he stood over the freshly filled grave. Despite the urging of mrs Hudson and Lestrade, John refused to leave the side of his best friend's grave. All he had with him was the coat. It was the one thing if Sherlock's they let John keep. Now that he was alone, John took a seat on a chair that he had been sitting on as they filled the grave. It had begun to get chilly so he wrapped the bloodstained coat over his shoulders. Holding his head in his hands, John sat there ad stared into space.

Even though he was covered by the coat that was once worn by his friend, it paled in comparison to having the real thing. Sherlock had become his world. His everything... And now he was gone. Sherlock Holmes, the worlds consulting detective, was dead, leaving John alone to fend for himself. Like a baby deer abandoned by its mother, John was now painfully aware of how vulnerable he really was. As he pulled the coat around him, the rain began to fall. With the deathly silence now filled with the delicate hum of the rain, John buried his face in his hands and cried. ~Months later~

Since his apparent death, John had all but stopped eating. He simply couldn't muster up the will to bring food to his mouth. It had gotten to the point where John needed a feeding tube in order to keep him alive. Each day turned out to be far worse than the day before. The hurt just kept growing and growing, and growing. John was basically a shell of the man he once was, having transformed into a walking pit of despair. Day after day, John could only go through the motions. Even Mycroft took pity on John, taking care of his medical bills and therapy. Even so, not even an attractive assistant could bring John out of his shell.

Each night was the same. John would refuse to go to sleeep if he didn't have Sherlock's coat draped over him. It didn't even matter that the scent of his best friend's shampoo had long since disappeared. No, John didn't care. He needed that coat. He wanted it. It didn't bother him that Sherlock was wearing it when he died. To john, it was the only thing that could bring him closer to his friend. In his mind, with Sherlock's coat covering him, it was as if the man was still alive and well.

Settling in for the night, The once frigid "Anthea" tucked the coat around John and turned out the light. Once the door was closed, John burst into tears as he always did. Life was simply unbearable without his companion. So why couldn't he do it? Why couldn't John muster up the courage to put a bullet in his brain? Feeling like a failure, John quietly sobbed himself to sleep