He can't sleep.
He doesn't eat.
Days fade into weeks, and weeks into months.
Time is nothing but an irrelevant blur ever since,
That day.
That horrible, cursed day that sent his life spiraling down into a pit of utter despair.
The day that his best friend, the smartest and most arrogant person he had ever met; his best friend, the same one that found him when he was loneliest, and took him in and out of the cold; his best friend, the person that seemed so alien like in so many ways, but was really the most human person he had ever met with a huge heart to match; that was the day, when all of this went down the drain.
The day that he fell.
John knew Sherlock was impossibly smart, he had to deal with his overwhelming intelligence 24/7, but what he couldn't understand, what he did not want to think about was how it was possible that he chose the route to end his life.
Moriarty might have smashed his reputation to pieces and perhaps manipulated Sherlock's sanity a bit, but they could have fixed it.
Him and John.
They could have fixed it all.
If only they had more time.