Sherlock came back every day that week. He'd be there when John got off work and John would very calmly hold the door open for him. Sherlock would obligingly step outside, and always say the same thing before John closed the door in his face.
"I love you," and then the door would close, with the doctor on one side and the detective on the other.
On the seventh day of this treatment, John sighed as he opened the door. Sherlock was there again; it was habit now to see his once-dead friend there, standing where his now-dead wife once stood. Sherlock heard the sigh, and everything behind it. "I'm not giving up so easily, John," he warned. John began closing the door. The "I love you," was faintly muffled by the door's wood but it was still easily discernable.
John strode across his living room to collapse on the sofa. If he really concentrated, he could still catch a whiff of Mary's scent about the flat, particularly in the living room where she'd spent the majority of her illness. She'd been the one to help John back to living after Sherlock jumped. At first she'd been just another patient in the hospital, a kind, gentle sort of woman with light blonde hair and blue eyes that danced even when he'd given her the sobering prognosis. Leukemia, so advanced it was unlikely chemotherapy would do much more than decrease the quality of the time she had left.
Something about her calm demeanor in the face of near certain death stuck with him, and he called her later that evening with some different treatment options. She'd turned them all down, saying she preferred to make the most of what time she had left to her, but offered to take him out to dinner for his kindness. John hadn't known how to react- he hadn't gone on anything resembling an actual date since before the Fall- but she laughed lightly and he'd agreed before he had time to panic.
Fast-forward three months and John was down on one knee, asking Mary to spend what time she had with him. She'd agreed and they were married within the week. Harry had thought it awfully quick, but she really had no space to talk considering her whirlwind courtship with her own wife.
He and Mary had lived happily in their new flat for nearly two months before her condition deteriorated. She'd managed to hang on though, for nearly four more months, holding tight to John's hand right up until he saw the light in her eyes go dim for the first time as her grip relaxed and she exhaled for the last time. It had been in the same room John now sat that she'd drawn that final breath, in the armchair opposite the fireplace where she'd often sit reading with her feet tucked cheerfully up under her.
Nine months she'd been gone, and John had healed well. He still missed her, wanted to see her, and tell her he loved her, but he had managed to move forward, accepting his lot in life as a widower and a doctor and nothing more. It was nothing like the devastation he'd felt when Sherlock had died, but there wasn't much point in feeling guilt over it, as it wasn't something he could change. He'd loved them both very much, but in very different ways. Mary had accepted that, and loved him anyway.
John had been okay, moving steadily towards contentment. Until Sherlock had reappeared and dicked everything up.