You watch him from afar every day, observing and deducing his habits and practices. Not once does he pause and look up to where you crouch on the roof; why should he? You're dead. And yet it still hurts. Watching him, seeing him move on. At least he's got Mary now. But wouldn't it be nice for him to notice you, just once? Is that too much to ask? You've been doing all of this to protect him, save him from Moriarty's web. Anger surges through your veins; not anger at John, but at yourself. You wish you had the courage to go up and tell him, scream from the top of your lungs that yes, you survived! The great Sherlock Holmes survived the fall! But that would be selfish. All of your work, ruined because you couldn't stand another day of waiting.
That same selfish part of you doesn't accept the fact that John has moved on from you. Why should he have a life without you? After all, it's only your hard work that has kept him alive. Mycroft tells you that he still mourns, but it's been a year now. John has Mary, and he's moved out. 221B sits empty, because unlike John, Mrs. Hudson still believes in you. No, that's another selfish thought, you tell yourself. John believes. John has always believed.
You have become less human without John. Reverted to your old selfish ways, losing your newfound humanity. You can still tell the difference between 'good' and 'bad,' but it's getting harder and harder to remind yourself of that.
John has a limp again. He visits your grave once a week, bringing flowers and occasionally talking to your fake tombstone. He should know that you've always hated flowers and thought them unnecessary.
One day you get closer than usual. You can hear him yelling at your empty tomb, things like 'YOU MACHINE,' and 'WHY DID YOU HAVE TO MAKE THIS SO HARD?,' but eventually his voice softens and he breaks down into sobbing. 'I loved you, you bastard,' he cries. You stand behind a tree several meters off, frozen. 'Why'd you have to go and jump? We could've had something, I know it. But now you're gone, and I've got Mary. I love her, but she's not you. You always were a selfish bastard, Sherlock. And I loved you, I still love you. But why did you do it?'
It has become your custom now to take the bouquets that John leaves on your grave, hiding them beneath whatever your disguise is that day and secreting them off to the flat Mycroft has procured for you. Occasionally Molly comes and visits, but she seems nervous, more tense than usual. Once she sees the flowers, she lets out a little 'oh' that doesn't go unnoticed by you, and hastily makes up an excuse to leave. 'I've- I've forgotten the milk! Sorry, sorry, sorry, Sherlock, I'm so sorry, I've- I've got to go.'
John stops coming to your grave. You sit with your back to the tombstone one day, just thinking. Staring at the cloudy grey sky. And then, inexplicably, you burst into uncontrollable sobbing. Through your tears and hiccups, you try to deduce the reasoning behind this outbreak. You find nothing. Maybe it's the strain that living under the radar brings. You have no idea.
Every Thursday without fail, you come and sit by your grave. Pondering what John meant by 'I loved you.' 'We could've had something.' 'I still love you.'
Eventually, you stop coming. There's no point any more. John will never know you survived. He'll live 'happily ever after' with Mary. Molly doesn't visit any more; she has a new boyfriend- as far as you can tell, he's not a serial killer. Mycroft is busy doing government things as usual, and you are alone. What is the point of living?
You live only for the thrill now. Hunting petty criminals, catching serial killers. Nothing big, or the news would pick up on it. You've slipped back into other old habits, like the drugs. Procured through shady back alley dealings, you crave more than you can take. Mycroft notices, but never says anything. He watches your deterioration with a quiet sadness, like he has accepted that you aren't going to get any better.
And then the chance to talk to John again arises, and you can't stop thinking about it. No matter that you're both in danger, you'll be able to figure out what he meant that day. It's been bothering you ever since then, but you've pushed it into a dark corner of your mind palace and refused to think about it. When you do get sleep, that is what you dream about. The what-if's bother you. What if you hadn't jumped? What if Moriarty hadn't showed up on the rooftop that day? What if there never was a Moriarty? What would've happened with you and your blogger?