A pulsating headache told John that it was coming in three days. Sitting alone, in the cafe below his flat, John Watson realized for the fourth time that day with a cringing horror that it was coming in three days. The anniversary of Sherlock's death, two years in three days.

God, please help me.

The seat across from him was vacant like every other morning and John glared at it. Nobody fit John's standards anymore because nobody could be him. Not a single person in the world could ever match up to him. He was the only person who John couldn't stand to be with, and afterwords once gone, couldn't stand to be without.

Two years in three days, John recited it in his head every minute as he watched the clock tick them away. Speedy's cafe held all of John's thoughts and regrets, as he had tackled all of them every morning for the last year and 362 days. Speedy's cafe was his sanctuary and acted as a medium between him and God; the equivalent to most people's version of church. Nobody knew John better than Speedy's cafe.

Sherlock died and so did John.

John sat facing the windows in Speedy's and looked out of them silently. He would just stare most days without really having a reason, people-watching and car-watching. He was sitting in the booth, in the back, facing the window. He had his elbows on the table and the back of his hands supported his chin, as he stared blankly out into Baker Street.

It's not true…He would have wanted me to…It was no magic trick…

In the first few months of John's suffering those were a few of his thousand thoughts of torture.

John found one of Sherlock's prop nooses in a box three months after; he kept it out on the counter for a few days and then it came to be missing. He suspected Mrs. Hudson. What would he have said to ask for it back? 'Hello Mrs. Hudson, just asking for the noose back, going to hang myself upstairs.'

John kept on going but didn't know why. Maybe it was for Sherlock, for one tiny strand of hope that one day, he would see the black coat come round the corner and step into the threshold of the cafe. That one day his life would go back to normal.

John left a few minutes later to go back into his flat.

"Morning, John," Mrs. Hudson called from inside the kitchen.

"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson. Mind if I come in?"

"Go right ahead, John."

He stepped inside the downstairs kitchen of Mrs. Hudson's but went no further than the doorway. She was organizing things in her fridge, probably preparing to go shopping for groceries later. John stood a moment without saying a word, he looked at the floor and leaned against the wall like he had a cane once more.

"How are you then, John?" Mrs. Hudson stopped her rushing about and stood facing John. She was in no condition like John's but she would get there. It would only take three days.

He cleared his throat and nodded lightly. "I'm doing alright."

"Oh, John," she said, and began to get busy again. "It's OK to feel like this, I mean, you two were so close and all. I'd never seen Sherlock so taken with anyone like that before-"

"Please, Mrs. Hudson, I just-" He pinched the skin in-between his eyebrows and a headache hit him.

"I see, prefer not to talk about it then," she said. "I'm sorry, dearie."

Mrs. Hudson, after the fall, was a mess like John. She visited his gravestone with John for the first time, but she recovered quicker than John could comprehend. He picked fights with her and they had a few rough patches; John just couldn't understand how she got over it so fast.

"It's alright," he said, and headed up the stairs to calm himself down. He flung himself down into a chair and contemplated putting the telly on, but as he lifted the remote it just dropped to the floor, his grip fading as the need to rub his eyes overpowered anything else. Television couldn't distract him right now.

Three days was too close.

So instead, he looked through the books on the shelves. He organized, attempted to dust, cleaned out his fridge like Mrs. Hudson was doing with hers. The sudden urge to clean had come over him, as if he was attempting to get rid of some part of himself through washing it away, some part of his old life he wanted to forget that remained in the flat itself. But halfway through dusting the shelves, his hand let go of the rag and he grasped his head in his hands.

The headache became a migraine.

"Damn it," he whispered to himself. "Damn it all." He collapsed back down into the chair, the flat worse than it started out. The books from the shelves were all laid out on the floor for the dusting and things were out of place and dust was floating all throughout the air.

Three days is too early to cry, he thought to himself. Sherlock, I miss you.

"John?"

He jumped at the sudden words and jolted around in the chair to see Mrs. Hudson standing at the door.

"Are you alright, dearie? I hadn't heard anything from you in awhile."

"Fine, thank you. See you in the morning." As she went down the stairs he turned back to face the window.

I've been asleep for hours… but I don't remember falling asleep.

The room was darker and gloomier now, and the books that were piled on the floor reflected the moonlight coming in from the window. The skull on the mantle was illuminated and John stared at it. He hated how at one point, Sherlock had appreciated the skull more than he had appreciated him. Besides, it was a human skull, not a normal living room decoration. But throwing away something Sherlock cherished was too much for John to handle. Sometimes at first, John had a horror stricken dream that it was Sherlock's skull and the devil had placed it there for safekeeping. It stayed in a drawer for a month after that.

Now, John was scared that dream was going to come back.

Only three days, three days is nothing.

Jesus Christ, what am I saying? I don't want to go to sleep tonight.

A glimpse into Sherlock's bedroom before he would tackle sleep. Let's just say that he was awake for most of the night.