It had been a whole year since Sherlock had-

Since Sherlock had killed himself.

God, it still hurt John to say it, to even think it. He'd tried his best to think of reasons his best friend, Sherlock Holmes, would take his own life. So far, he had thought of nothing. Came up with no ideas. It was a dead end. Sherlock would be disappointed in him and his lack of detecting skills. Would have been disappointed. He's not really in a position to be disappointed any more.

After Sherlock died, John hadn't known what to do. Part of him died that day along with the great detective, a big part of him. He'd hoped for a long time that Sherlock had faked it, he had managed to get out of it some how but after six months of waiting... He had given up on that dream.

It was funny, John had been so alone after returning for Afghanistan. So very alone, yet it was now, surrounded by the friends he had made whilst with Sherlock, that he felt more alone than ever.

Molly and Mrs Hudson had enveloped him in love and warmth after Sherlock passed. They regularly checked in on him, though he thought it was more likely that it was to stop him from doing anything stupid than to actually spend time with him. Why would they want to spend time with him?

He was an idiot.

He thought he knew Sherlock.

He thought he understood him.

He thought he could read him.

Nobody could ever have been more wrong.

Why would anyone want to spend time with him?

He let down the one person he should have been there for. He would never be able to forgive himself. It was not possible. He had failed the Detective, failed himself. He was supposed to look after him, that's what friends do. That's what family does.

And now he wouldn't never see his closest friend, his best friend, his brother, again.