Opening his eyes half way he stared at the ceiling in the darkness. It was around twelve midday but thick curtains kept sunlight away from his sensitive eyes.
Lying there he felt empty, which was the opposite of last night. Last night he cried for hours, cried because of the pain of loosing his best friend, for the sadness of missing him, the hatred of not being able to save him and the overall mourning of man he could never replace. Eventually he had cried himself into a fitful sleep full of his face.
Every other day in the year it wasn't this bad. He could get out of bed, and go about his day with a smile; sure when he looked at the smiley on the wall his smile would falter and every time John heard about an interesting murder his eyes would gloss over and think about how excited Sherlock would get if he were here, but he could cope. He remembered Sherlock in all the little things he did, but he could carry on.
Except this week. The anniversary of his death. Everything came crashing to the front of his mind from the back where he tried to forget. He remembered how Sherlock died, how he cried from the roof top, how John ran to save him, how he had been to late. He remembered the little things Sherlock used to do, the way he would almost never sleep, but when he did he was so still and peaceful. He remembered Sherlock's insults, his wit, his jokes. Now John would reminisce over the cases they solved and the time they spent together.
But as John led there in the dark staring above he couldn't remember how Sherlock's voice sounded, how his laugh sounded, what he smelt like, what his hands felt like, he couldn't even remember exactly how he looked. As time went on Sherlock's face became more blurred and details began to fade. It killed John to think this, his chest became tight once more and his gut seemed to twist into nots as slowly the first tear of the day burst from his dull swollen eyes.