When John watched Sherlock fall from the roof of St. Bart's, there was a moment when everything simply stopped. The world simply stopped and all John could do was watch in absolute horror as his best friend plummeted to his death.
Then when everything started again and John rushed to where Sherlock lay everything stopped again when he was struck by the bicyclist.
John would never admit to it, but as he was falling to the cold hard pavement, a tiny thought went through his head that said "Please let me die too..."
Things didn't really start again after that. Sure he was able to stand up and get to Sherlock, but he still didn't register what was happening. Sherlock's not dead. He can't be. There is nothing that can stop that mind!
John closed his eyes and tried to spirit himself off to a safe place in his head as he collapsed into a stranger's arms while Sherlock was carted off into the hospital. He tried to be anywhere but where he was.
Somehow he made it back to 221B Baker Street. He didn't remember it, but he suspected Mycroft had helped. He sat down, numb, in his chair. He pulled the small pillow from behind him and sat it on his lap.
He wasn't sure how long he sat there, picking at a fraying piece of string on the edge of the pillow. Mrs. Hudson came up at some point. John looked up and saw that she had been crying.
"Oh John..." he stood from his chair and crossed the small sitting room to give her a hug.
They stayed together, locked in an embrace in the sitting room that John shared with the reason for Mrs. Hudson's tears for a long while. Eventually Mrs. Hudson sniffed and let go of John, mumbling about making a cup of tea for them
The next few weeks passed both extremely slow and incredibly fast for John. He remembered only snippets, a bit here and there. Sherlock's funeral was altogether too clear in his memory for his liking. But, at the same time as he wanted to forget every detail, John could not forget the final time he has seen his best friend.
Mycroft had insisted on a closed casket, so unfortunately the final memory John had of Sherlock's face was that of a bloodied corpse on the sidewalk beside St. Bart's.
John couldn't bear it.
The weeks passed heedless of John's malcontent. The sun still shone, the rain still fell, even though John's best friend was dead.
He went to see his therapist a few times, but she could not help him. She did not understand the depth of the bond that John and Sherlock had shared. She couldn't even begin to comprehend the pain of the gaping hole that Sherlock had ripped into his chest.
Somehow he managed to return his daily schedule to some semblance of normal. Though, his idea of normal had been greatly warped during his time with Sherlock. He threw himself into work, taking on more patients than any other doctor at the surgery. Sarah had urged him to take some time off, but he had refused. It would be too painful to stay idle.
The weeks turned into months, and before John knew it a year had passed. On the anniversary John went to visit Sherlock's grave.
He stood in front of the tombstone for a long while, and John barely noticed when it started raining.
"I miss him too." John was not surprised to hear Mycroft's voice, and did not turn around or reply. He did not need to. Mycroft knew; no one missed Sherlock in quite the same way as john.
One year turned into two, and John's spirits slowly lifted. He started dating again, and almost two and a half years after Sherlock threw himself off of St. Bart's Hospital John met Mary. She was perfect for him, and for the first time in two and a half years John didn't have a gaping hole in his chest. It was full once more.
They dated for six months before John bit the bullet and went with his gut. He asked Mary for her hand, and much to his happy surprise she said yes.
It was a small ceremony. John invited a few co-workers, his family, Lestrade, Molly; Mary invited her friends and family. John did not invite Mycroft, but he showed up anyways.
John finally forgave him for his role in Sherlock's undoing.
John was finally happy again.
Seven months later John and a noticeably pregnant Mary were returning from a night out. John followed behind Mary, but when he was halfway into the door of 221B he heard footsteps behind him. He turned to glance at whoever it was.
John's world stopped once again.
His hair was shorter and he had more facial scruff than John had ever seen on him before. But it was him. Tall and thin as ever, but his eyes were tired, and he looked as if he had fairly been to hell and back.
But it was him.
John knew not what to say.
Finally the previously dead man opened his mouth.
"Hello, John."
A/N: Well! This is my first foray into Sherlock fanfiction. I hope I did a good job. Reviews are appreciated!
I may write a sequel to this. Not promising anything though.