Sherlock fell.
Amy fell.
That was the moment he couldn't erase from his mind – Sherlock's arms windmilling, falling for an eternity. His blood on the pavement, across his face.
He couldn't seem to wipe it from his memory, watching Amy and Rory fall, entwined, almost calm, erasing reality as they did so.
His reality was shattered.
Of course the end came later, but that was the moment he remembered.
No one came to Sherlock's funeral but Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, a few more from the force, and John – of course.
There wasn't a funeral. How could there be a funeral when they had already been buried?
John and Mycroft sat across from each other, not speaking, not touching their tea. There didn't seem to be anything to say.
He told Brian what happened. They looked at each other. The Doctor could see all the accusations in Rory's father's eyes, but there was nothing to say.
Sometimes, he would walk to a park and sit – just sit. Watching the people going by and seeing nothing. Sherlock would've looked at them and seen their pasts and futures, all the sordid details and sorry little hopes, but John couldn't see any of that.
Nowhere in the universe held interest anymore. What was the point of saving civilizations with no one to share it with? What was the point of saving lives when she was already dead? The beauty he had seen through Amy's eyes was gone.
He spent his days at the hospital alone, and his nights in the flat alone. Sometimes Mrs. Hudson would come and look in the door, but she never came farther than that. Something on his face forbid it.
The Tardis was enormous when one was alone. He spent days wandering, ignoring her sympathetic hum. His sexy seemed a universe away – useless.
John opened the closet door and pushed the coats aside, looking into the darkness with shoulders slumped. At last, he picked up his cane again – the cane he thought he was done with for good – and limped back across the flat, not bothering to shut the closet door.
His face was fixed in a frown. He brought doom to the doomed races and didn't smile anymore. He knew that he was elevated above the humans, and emotion kept him down with them. He shed it, and did not look back.
Sometimes, he dreamed. In his dreams, Sherlock stood above his bed. "What are you doing in bed?" he said, "The game is on!" But John couldn't move from the bed, and when he forced himself to wake, Sherlock was gone.
Sometimes, he dreamed. The police box door opened and Amy strode in, lounging across the console. "It's been five years, Raggedy Man." But when he woke up, all the rooms were empty.
One day, there was a shadow at the door. John looked up.
When he met her, it was snowing.