It hurt, so much that it was like he'd lost a limb instead of a friend. A flatmate. It hurt more than death ever had a right to. He'd seen men, both good and bad shot. Dead in seconds. No time to say goodbye, no time to leave a note. No time to tell their families what they thought of them.
He had all of that, and he'd wasted it on a phone call. A note. One last lie, one last amazing deduction that went wrong. He'd thought it had meant to happen. That somehow there had been a plan in his brilliant, piercing eyes and that somehow, despite seeing him fall, that it had been someone else falling.
He'd gone to the funeral and witnessed the silent but hard grief of Mycroft. He'd even met the formidable Mummy, dressed in a crisp black suit. She hadn't shed a tear. He'd thought it was a sign that she knew, because surely a mother would cry at her son's funeral? Mrs Hudson had done enough crying for the both of them.
He'd waited a month, and felt his hopes fade a little. But a month, a month was nothing to Sherlock. He'd be back.
He waited a year.
And wondered if the phone call had had a grain of truth in it. Had it all been a lie?
After two years, he knew that Sherlock had been 100% authentic, that he'd been the greatest man alive. That he'd been worth it. That he had lied in his note. But why had he lied?
After three years, he stopped waiting for him to return. It had all gone wrong, every single last thing had gone wrong. Sherlock hadn't been selfish or selfless enough to die, so it must have been a mistake.
After the first decade he'd come to terms with it. The fact that Sherlock Holmes was dead, and that he was never coming back to haunt him with sharp deductions or with his eyes that would look sad sometimes or with his angular cheekbones. He'd also come to terms with the fact that there was no copy of an audio file that he spoke on, or that no picture he'd ever been in had captured the precise colour of his eyes. Or that people were dying every day because Sherlock wasn't around to help stop it.
After the first decade he could also come to terms with the diaries and the laptop. The diaries which told the tale in precise detail of his impressions of the individual cases and of the flat and him; of the flatmate as he had been termed to start with. And then, his friend, his only friend. And then, nearer to the end, a potential life-long partner.
The laptop was empty however. He had never used it.
He'd instead, only ever used his. And the documents that John never knew he had written were the most heart-wrenching of all. Password encrypted with numerical codes mixed with anecdotes, the documents contained detailed encounters of his impression of John's girlfriends, and about him. He'd often wondered why they had been saved on his laptop.
But Sherlock had been odd that way, he supposed.
When the second decade passed, and he buried Mrs Hudson, he was able to come to terms with the child that had appeared at his door a decade before. A small, dark haired ten year old who had recently been left orphaned and had run away to the only address that his mother had ever told him- 221B Baker Street. He'd fit right into the flat, complete with pale skin and piercing intellect. He'd adopted him, the little Holmes, but it took him a decade to come to terms with it. Sherlock had had a son, and he'd known.
Sherlock apparently, had left money to him. To John Holmes. The mother hadn't been aware of it, but Mycroft had. And Mycroft had been the one to offer his DNA, being close to Sherlock's, to say that it was his. And it had been Mycroft that pulled a few strings so that he had full custody of the boy.
It was only as he saw John grow into a man that he saw it. The Sherlock glimmer in him, tempered slightly, so that he was not so oblivious to feelings. It was only then that he forgave Sherlock for never telling him.
After the third decade, he saw his grandchild, Sherlock John Holmes born and he cried tears of joy, tinged with sadness that Sherlock, however hard he had appeared, would never see it.
After the fourth decade, he moved out of the flat and left it to his child and his family to use. And he moved to a care home in the countryside. He reconnected with Greg there, and then Molly, as she was wheeled in, talking about how much fun she'd have had back in the day examining her own corpse.
After the fifth decade, the burying of Greg and a care home change after Molly over-dosed when a new inmate came called Sherlock, he was ready. Ready to die.
And he had time, god did he have it. He wrote several letters, had his family, his large Holmes family, encircle his sick bed. And if his grandchildren had dark hair and piercing eyes as they cried over him, then he would smile. Because it was perfect, and if he wished for a second that Sherlock was there too, smiling down at him, his eyes still sparkling in his saggy face, and his greyed hair then he didn't mention it.
And if when he got to heaven he ran into his best-friend's arms and kissed him, then no-one was going to challenge him. He'd been waiting long enough, after all. And if Sherlock kissed him back and felt his tears paint streaks on John's cheeks, then neither would mention it.
And if Sherlock mumbled apologies against John's lips then neither mentioned it.
Because they were together.
Finally.