It was six weeks since Sherlock had … well, six weeks had passed and John was still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that his best friend would no longer be found polluting the air of 221B with noxious gases from one of his experiments, sprawling on the sofa immersed in his "Mind Palace" or waking him at 2:45 in the morning with the cry of "A case John!"
John had spent the last weeks sitting in his chair, lost and alone. He'd managed to make it through the funeral without breaking down, but it was a close thing. The funeral had been well attended; it appeared that Sherlock's entire homeless network was there. Mycroft gave the eulogy. When he had earlier asked John if he wanted to say a few words, the poor Doctor got so choked up he could barely breathe, let alone speak. All he could do was shake his head, tears welling up and pouring down his cheeks.
A quiet "Hoo hoo" at the door announced Mrs. Hudson. She walked into the dim room, took one look at the small, disheveled man sitting in a chair, and felt her heart break anew.
She hurried over, gathered John in her arms and murmured, "I know you don't believe it right now, but it will get better."