For the first 8 days after the fall, John sat in his normal chair, facing the stark, empty one which Sherlock might occupy in the mornings after John would pour his coffee. On the first morning alone, whenever he looked down at his steaming drink, he could have swore that he saw the faint shadow of Sherlock sitting in the chair across from him, and he could have swore that he felt a presence slowly applying rosin to the bow of his violin. But when he looked up, he saw no such figure, so he continued to imagine that Sherlock was out on a case errand, all the while stuffing down the painful thought that he knew that wasn't true.
The next morning, and the 6 following, John took his stashed bottle of whiskey that Harry had given to him at Christmas – she said she didn't need it anymore, which was a lie – and poured a little in his coffee, increasing the amount as the days wore on. Getting a little buzzed for the day made it easier to think about the fact that Sherlock was gone: long, long gone, and he wouldn't be sitting in the leather seat across from him ever again. He thought about where his coffee was made from – on the label it said Ethiopia. If only, John thought, he could go to Ethiopia and retrieve Sherlock from amidst the hot sands, and bring him back home.
No. Sherlock was farther away than a bus or a plane could ever take him, and yet Sherlock was still in London. But he wouldn't go visit him today. His memorial was just yesterday. Or was it the day before, or the one before that? It didn't matter, and he didn't care. His best friend left him, and now he had no more whiskey in his bottle. John thought that might be a sign, and resolved not to buy another bottle until he absolutely needed it. Sherlock wouldn't have wanted him to get drunk – especially not over him. But Sherlock wouldn't have had any emotions if it had been himself who had jumped off a building. Sherlock didn't have emotions, so that's why it was so easy for him to jump off of the damn building in the first place. Was it so better that John lived, while his only friend died? Sherlock had taken the liberty to decide that for both of them.
Now, not having a drink to soften his raging thoughts, John began to think about his circumstance for the first time. Real, raw, emotion overtook him for the first time, and unconsciously tears began to form and wouldn't stop. Somehow, he found himself on the floor kneeling at Sherlock's old leather chair, his head on the seat, clutching the piece of furniture while bathing it in tears he knew Sherlock could never have shed had the roles been reversed. How could he possibly believe he was really gone? In that moment, he knew he didn't want to be alive. It's not that he wanted to commit suicide, but rather he wished he could go into a state of non-being, until he could figure things out, like how to get Sherlock back, or how to forget he even existed so that he would never feel this pain again. He had thought Sherlock might have actually begun to care, for the first time in his life, about another person, but John had been wrong – so wrong. No caring person would have died like this. Moriarty's words suddenly circled his head. "That's what people DO!" And then there were the questions about Moriarty that would never be answered, either. John hadn't noticed the coffee spilt all over his pants and the floor, but seizing the fallen coffee cup laying on floor, he threw it at the ground as hard as he could manage. He didn't hear Mrs. Hudson rushing up the stairs either, and he hadn't expected her to after earlier in the week when he had roared at her to leave him alone after she asked if he needed anything. He had faintly felt sorry for his outburst, but it was just after he finished his coffee and he felt comfortably numb. It wouldn't happen this time, and he was relieved when she called his name tentatively.
"John?"
John looked up at her, eyes swollen, red, and blank, and dropped his head back on the seat again, staring at the taunting yellow smiley face.
"Oh, John, dear! I heard your cup smash and I just had to come up even though you told me not to, but-" seeing she was safe from being yelled at, she rushed toward John, filled with pity. "Oh, John, I'm sorry. I didn't know you were in such a terrible state." She helped him up and they went and sat on the couch.
"Mrs. Hudson?" John wanted more than anything for it to be Sherlock he was talking to instead of her.
"Yes, John?"
John sighed, and rested his head on Mrs. Hudson's shoulder. "I've got to go."
"It's ok, dear. I understand." Mrs. Hudson put her arm around John, and after what seemed like hours, John finally got up to start packing his things.