John was sad. There was no other way to classify the emotions that ran rampant through his mind all day long. His therapist had called him many things—depressed, traumatized—but there was just a simple, lasting sadness about the way he lived now that he didn't have Sherlock. John still couldn't believe it, couldn't believe that nearly three years ago his best friend had jumped from a rooftop. The events leading up to that horrible day, Moriarty's web of crime and lies, everyone turning against the man they had once accepted as brilliant, the shaking of Sherlock's voice as he told John he was a fraud, haunted the army doctor. He still had nightmares but he was used to them. They were nothing new to a man who had seen the horrors of war; but these hurt him more. They reminded him of a time where he was complete. A time he still hadn't come to terms with losing.
At first, it was as if Sherlock was merely on vacation. People hovered over John, giving him extraordinary amounts of attention and never letting his mind wander enough to become conscious of the emptiness of the flat, or of himself. He answered people's questions, he thanked everyone for their condolences, he played the "keep it together" game so well it was almost as if he had fooled everyone into thinking he did have it together. Harry had called more times than he had expected—he expected her to continue ignoring him as she usually does. Lestrade, Donovan, and even Anderson checked up on him a few times. Lestrade always had a regretful tone about his short calls and John knew the man still felt guilt over the incident. John never knew quite what to say without sounding bitter and angry. Mrs. Hudson was there to bring him tea and help him clean up a bit. He spoke little to her; she never pressured him and was surprised by his decision to stay in the flat.
Months after the funeral passed. The delusion of Sherlock being on holiday couldn't stand anymore. Bills piled up and John knew he had to get a handle on things. He dreamt of Sherlock finding him again, of the two being reunited and solving crimes. He remembered all the times Sherlock had said something insensitive and he had had to correct the situation. He missed it. He missed the way Sherlock looked when John told him he had made a mistake. There was nothing that could ever compare to the look on someone's face when Sherlock deduced something that would otherwise be a secret within 3 seconds of meeting them. It never stopped being amazing; no matter how many people told him negative things about Sherlock, John never thought him anything other than magnificent. He had grown to love him, to love Sherlock Holmes.
And now he would never see him again. He would never be able to have any more adventures with the detective.
John had lost the best thing in his life and he didn't know how to keep it together.