John was living, but he wasn't alive. For the past three years, he had been suffering, unable to get over the death of his best friend. Not that he ever expected to get over Sherlock's death, but he thought that it could only get better with time. It didn't.
At first, he had been drowning in a flood of emotions. Guilt that he hadn't been able to save Sherlock, anger that the man had just calmly killed himself in front of John's eyes, regret that he had never managed to voice how much Sherlock had meant to him (still meant to him), bitterness that Sherlock's name could not be cleared and most of all, grief. He grieved for the most remarkable man he was fortunate enough to have known and loved, and should not have lost. A world without Sherlock Holmes in it was a devastating thought, and he could hardly believe that this was how he now had to live. That very night, after watching Sherlock leap off the building, he had gone home and drunk himself into a stupor. Anything to numb all the feelings overwhelming him.
But now, he hated feeling numb. He was empty inside- nothing captured his attention anymore, he was never happy, he was never angry, he was never sad. He knew it wasn't healthy, and that he had to help himself. That was why he had continued with his therapy sessions, continued writing his blog. It hadn't seemed to work, and no small wonder, for all he ever felt like talking or writing about was Sherlock. Maybe his subconscious didn't want him to feel better. How could he stay alive when Sherlock was dead? How could he ever expect to move on, when working with Sherlock had been the best part of his life?
Still, he persevered with each new day. It wasn't fair to Mrs Hudson, his colleagues or his patients to have to put up with his problems. Especially poor Mrs Hudson, who had loved Sherlock too and who had known him for far longer. So he did his work, he payed his rent, and he made conversation when it felt appropriate.
But he wasn't staying alive, he was just pretending to.