John sat and stared at the wall. He'd done a lot of it lately. Sherlock's death had allowed him time to memorize the wallpaper. There seemed to be no point, doing anything else, when Sherlock's arrogant grin wouldn't be waiting. That face haunted John. He dreamed of Sherlock almost every night. The memories washed over him every moment, and it was crippling. The damned limp had returned.
Everyone around John was worried for him. They seemed baffled by how deeply he'd been affected. After all, Sherlock Holmes was a hard man to get close to. But John had done it. He'd broken through to Sherlock. It still came as a shock to their friends when John walked into a room and a tall, dark figure wasn't standing right beside him.
It came as a shock to John, too. The mornings were lonely without Sherlock, and the days were painful. It had been almost a year since Sherlock died. Mrs. Hudson only occasionally let her face fall. Lestrade offered himself no sadness, only a forlorn, weariness. Anderson didn't pretend to be remotely sad; if anything, he felt guilty happiness. Donovan was a little more sympathetic, but really only for John. Mycroft...John had no idea about Mycroft. It was possible that Sherlock's brother was the only one who felt the same kind of pain he did.
But John knew that wasn't quite true. It wasn't any kind of pain John had felt before. He'd seen friends - close ones - get blown up, shot, and injured beyond repair in war. He'd gotten back to "normal" so much faster. The only explanation John would offer himself was that Sherlock had helped him cope. He had no one now, not a consulting detective, not a flatmate, not a best friend. What he had was alone, and alone ate at him.
A knock at the door reminded John of Sherlock's having shot the lock off. Looking out the window, he saw Molly standing on the stoop. Molly's visits were always slightly awkward. John couldn't pinpoint why, but he dreaded them all the same. There was a constant clot in the air, like Molly was trying to say something but couldn't. She never stayed very long. Now, she stepped up the stairs as Mrs. Hudson let her in. John watched the wallpaper even closer.
"Hello, John," Molly greeted him. "I've just come to give you this." She held out a basket of food. "My sister gave it to me, and I didn't have any use for it. I thought you might," she explained. The basket was placed on the coffee table. John nodded to her. His mouth remained shut. A smile was not attempted.
After standing awkwardly for a moment, Molly piped up again. "Okay. Well, um, goodbye. I'll see you soon." John's eyes followed her out. The door shut again.
The basket sat on the coffee table, beckoning. How long had it been since John had eaten? He couldn't remember. It brought back memories of him and Sherlock eating in those cafes on cases. Food was avoided until it couldn't be put off any longer. The muffin sitting on top of the basket really did not want to be put off.
Hoisting himself up from his seat, leaning heavily on his cane, John made his way to the muffin. He picked it up and took a bite. Its taste barely registered, but it was still good. John found some bread and jam farther down in the basket. Jam. He loved jam, why hadn't he had some lately? He'd have to fix that.
When the muffin was a pile of crumbs and the jam jar was half empty, John turned back to the wall. He hated to waste all his days, doing this, wallowing. It just didn't seem possible to move on.
What else can you do when the only thing you're sure of is taken away?