The press crawls over news of Sherlock's death like maggots, feasting off the drama. They've framed Sherlock as a criminal. Moriarty was found dead on the rooftop of St. Bartholomew's hospital. Rich Brook, according to the news. The press thinks Sherlock killed him in a struggle. John doesn't know what to think. He can't stand the way the press is slandering Sherlock's name, speaking lies and more lies where all they ever owed him was praise and gratitude. John doesn't believe what Sherlock told him. Sherlock was not a fraud. He was a genius, as human and with as much heart as anyone else John has ever known, and even more so.
Journalists want to interview him about it. He doesn't want to talk. In the end all he says is that Sherlock was the greatest man he's ever known, and he was innocent. He refuses to say any more, claiming he needs time to grieve. He does. But when he finally has time alone and goes and sits in 221B Baker Street, he feels only numb. He can hardly believe it. He can't believe that Sherlock isn't just down at the morgue, or at the laboratory, or even just in the kitchen adding a new specimen to the fridge. Sometimes he thinks he can even feel Sherlock's presence nearby, and that if he just turned around… But then he remembers. He always remembers.
He relives everything he said in That Phone Call, and thinks of everything he didn't say. He thinks of every way it might have gone differently. He wishes he could have killed Moriarty at Riley's house, and then maybe none of this would have happened. If he had seen through the lie he was fed about Mrs. Hudson being shot, if he'd stayed, or forced Sherlock to go with him, if, if, if… And then, like water being sucked down a plughole, every imaginary scenario would spiral into the dark hole of the one scenario that did happen, the one in which Sherlock Holmes stepped off a rooftop and took half of John Watson with him.
He used to have nightmares about Afghanistan. Now his dreams are haunted by Sherlock. Sherlock falling. Sherlock bleeding. Sherlock dead.
He attends Sherlock's funeral. He visits Sherlock's grave. He doesn't really remember what he says. He talks to his therapist, to Mrs. Hudson, to Lestrade, to Mike. Only a few words and then he leaves. They have sympathetic eyes and speak empty words of comfort that he doesn't hear. There's only one voice he wants to hear, and that voice is never going to speak again.
He knows, somewhere deep in the back of his mind, that he will write about this. He will speak the truth, even if no one listens. But whenever he sits down at his laptop, he can't. He wants to be out solving crimes with Sherlock, that infuriating, brilliant man who was forever showing off. He wants to write about incredible ten-steps-ahead deductions and ridiculous chases across London, even if the criminal gets away… Anything, anything but this. His hands shake every time he tries to reach towards the keyboard. The empty page blurs in front of him. He pictures Sherlock's face, and it feels as though the world is slipping off a precipice.