One: Worse for the wear

John sat in his chair, heaving a tired sigh as his fingers tapped furiously at the keys of his laptop. Since he had stopped responding to his phone, call or text, for anything that did not relate to work, he had now received his ninth email from detective investigator Lestrade. He'd groaned in annoyance before clicking the "reply" button. The man was still recruiting John to do some detective work on the side, likely hoping Sherlock had somehow rubbed off on him. Idiot, thought the army doctor sourly.

Some merit was to be offered, though, as Lestrade had waited longer than an entire year before bombarding John, giving him some much needed time to grieve. It wasn't enough. John was not sure it would ever be enough. Beside that, the idea that anyone could even begin to try picking up where the brilliant consulting detective had left off was completely ludicrous.

For many long months, Lestrade had called and sent him text messages almost non-stop. Occasionally, he would even pay John a visit in order to check up on him, and to further persuade him, all to no avail. John had no interest in surrounding himself by something which would undoubtedly envelope him in heart-wrenching memories. No, the surgery suited him just fine, thank you very much. John hit "send", then leaned back, rubbing his red-rimmed eyes. The doctor pushed away from his desk, limping over to set the kettle before dropping himself to the sofa. He switched on the television, not bothering to adjust the channel. He rarely, if ever, really watched, he simply needed background noise to stave off the impending loneliness. It didn't help. Upon him moving to his new flat, Harry had insisted on him staying with her instead, but John had refused. He wanted to be alone, though now, he was not so sure.

He closed his eyes and the blackness of his eyelids, as always, became a window to his old life. A life back in 221B with Sherlock Holmes. His torturous mind conjured an image of himself watching crap telly while Sherlock's thin frame sat at the table, bent over a microscope. His arm reached out for a pen, and without even having to ask, John was up, pressing one into those long, slender fingers. Naturally, there was no thanks offered, regardless, John smiled at the handsome detective, who had still neglected to glance up from his work.

The image was shattered, and John's eyes opened at the familiar whistle of a boiling kettle. He frowned as pain laced his weary heart. To his utter dismay, he was not in the flat with Sherlock, he was in another apartment entirely, and he was completely alone. Gone was the warm lighting, and the homey clutter that made up the flat on Baker street, and now he was left in this dark, unwelcoming, too-tidy place. John could feel the walls closing in on him, the shrill scream of the kettle still piercing his ear drums. Dread filled his thoughts, and he could hardly see past the stinging tears which welled into his eyes. His breaths came fast and hard, and he could feel his chest compressing. Releasing a panicked wheeze, he reached forth, and with a clean motion, he swept all of the items from his coffee table onto the floor. Breathing a sigh of relief, he took in the scene before him. John almost smiled at the sight of the many newspapers and empty boxes of Chinese scattered about the ground. Finally, he could breathe again. He reached for his cane, pulling himself up to fix a cuppa. His body protested as he lumbered forth to the kitchen. Today had been one of his bad days. Pity, his therapist had declared he was doing so well.

John had lived in the little apartment for nearly a year and a half now and he still was not used to the feel of it. He felt like an unwanted guest in his own home. John couldn't have stayed in 221B; it was too full of everything that made up Sherlock. He could scarcely move without being plagued by agony and grief. He had not thrown anything of Sherlock's out, save for a few rancid experiments left in the refrigerator. Constantly, he felt he was tiptoeing around all of his things, as the majority of the stuff in their home had belonged to Sherlock. After eighteen months of torture, John left the rest for Mycroft to handle, he had to get out of there for the sake of his sanity. It had been almost three years since the suicide of Sherlock Holmes, and still, John was as weighed down by grief as ever. He could not find it in himself to let go.

Abandoning the steaming cup on the counter, John hobbled toward the bathroom where he started the shower. This was usually the highlight of John's nights, standing beneath the scalding stream of water, relaxing his muscles and easing the pain hindering his shoulder. His gaze fell to the floor of the tub, the pitter-patter of drops hitting the porcelain surface calmed him a degree. He allowed his mind to wander, and it brought him to a dark place. Blood was mixing with the water, spider-webbing outward uncontrollably from a head of dark curls. Lifeless blue eyes stared into nothingness. John's arms wrapped around himself as he sobbed audibly. Tears mingled with the water on his cheeks as he shut his eyes firmly, and he turned off the water. The doctor shivered, but not from the cold. Almost three years, and the images still couldn't be cleansed from his thoughts.

John realized that he no longer had an excuse to avoid sleep, and grudgingly, he headed to bed. He turned onto his good shoulder and closed his eyes, surrendering himself to the inevitable nightmares once again. Almost three years, and he still dreamt of the man he cared for above all others dying each and every night.