Disclaimer: Nothing here is mine. Original story is from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC adaptation is the fruit of the brilliant minds of Moffat and Gattis. And even the translation is not mine (thanks dear MamzelleHermy).
Summary: When Sherlock dies, John's world becomes grey. In the literal way.
« Rule number one: Sherlock lies »
Of course Sherlock lies. For a case. For an experiment. To annoy someone. He does it brilliantly while watching you in the eyes. But he always does it for his sake.
It certainly was easy for him to make us believe he is dead. Back to normal, no more links, no more pressure, no one who could serve as bait for him anymore.
But after everything I still question myself. According to Molly, he had done it to protect us. Had he foreseen the consequences? I hope not. I hope that, had he known how all this would finish and what would be lost, he would have found another way. Just one way to let us know that he was alive. But my reason knows that he had predicted everything and that it hadn't change a thing for him. And that change everything to me.
The people who knew us then, when they finally noticed him, the newspapers, had always wanted to imagine that there was something special between us. And, in the end, they were probably right, even if it wasn't the way they were thinking. There was no romance between us, but you don't live near Sherlock without him leaving marks on you. We just had made a vow to give the other near unlimited and mutual permission.
He had the right to throw his theories at me without interruption, I had the right to ask him question without him despising me as he was doing with the others.
I had the right to remind him that he was human, he had the right to prove me that his intelligence wasn't from this world.
He had the right to stock improbable (and really unhygienic) stuff in our fridge, and I could make him stop playing violin in the middle of the night.
Ironically, 2 years can be really short in a lifetime but some drugs transforms you in an addict at first use and Sherlock was worse than that. He snatched me away for my life made of grey days before throwing me back there in the worst way possible.
Withdrawal and pain goes away with time. That's the case for most of drugs. But Sherlock was so much worse than that.