Disclaimer: All Characters mentioned belong to the BBC, originally Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and not me.
John Watson was never the same after Sherlock Holmes died. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't act normal. He couldn't get the images of Him stepping off of the roof out of his mind. He saw it whenever he closed his eyes. It haunted his dreams, and he was afraid to go to sleep at night.
There would be some mornings when he would wake up, and everything would seem so… So… normal; it would be like all that happened was a dream. And then he would go out into the kitchen, and realize that no, it wasn't a dream. Sherlock was gone. Mrs. Hudson had insisted that all of His Petri dishes, beakers and test tubes be packed away, and put in storage. She tried to get him to pack away the Skull, but he just… couldn't. He hated it, yeah. But packing it away would make it final. Sherlock was gone, and he wouldn't be coming back. So, it stayed on the mantel, a constant reminder of Him.
John found reminders of Sherlock everywhere. Walking down the crowded streets, and even just eating at a café. Smells and images would make him want to cry; he kept thinking he saw Him everywhere. But of course, that was absurd. He was gone.
He felt numb; like life wasn't worth living anymore. He had lost his best friend, and he felt so utterly alone. Every morning, he would wonder how he made it through another night. Life felt like it was going to be eternally cloudy. He couldn't even get himself to go into His room. It felt… wrong.
But John Watson could never, ever, bring himself to believe that Sherlock Holmes had lied to him. He knew deep down, in the dark void where his heart used to be, that Sherlock would never had lied to him, no matter what anyone told him.
A/N: Well. There we go. I hope you enjoy, and Feedback is love~