Days like this went by slowly for John, but he would deal. He would deal with the day to day humdrum, as long as he kept moving. He would deal because this was his only choice. It was easier to let his thoughts engulf him when he was in public, because he had to work to keep his posture, although blankness seemed to be his constant disposition. He would go to his friend's grave…Sherlock's grave…and he would ball up next to the stone thinking that maybe if he stayed there long enough, Sherlock would come to wake him up to tell him he was dreaming and ask him what on earth he was sniffing or if he had finally gone to get the milk. "John, where's the milk, John…did you have another row with the machine, John. Did you?"
And sometimes he would feel his presence. Right there next to him.
One time he woke up with a blanket tucked neatly around him. Someone had decided that, instead of calling the police on the sad man in the graveyard, they would make sure he was warm.
John would sometimes see Sherlock's figure in the black marbled gravestone. For a while, he would frantically turn around, only to see the rustling trees in the distance. Sherlock's body was in the ground beneath him. "Get it through your thick skull, John. He's dead. Sherlock is dead. Your best friend is dead."
From then on he would buy a ticket to the nearest train station, buy a cup of bad tea, and leave it untouched as he stared out the window. He would see Sherlock's figure blur into the backround, and then he would see Sherlock's face as he uttered his last words and John would cringe and press his face against the window.
And then he would think happy thoughts. He would think about walking in to 221B and seeing Sherlock sitting with his legs up on the couch. And then his friend would look at him thoughtfully and say to him
"Did you get the milk, John"
