Two weeks after, the crying had mostly stopped, with the exception of the occasional nightmare-induced sobs.
Two months after, John met Mary.
Five months after, Mary moved into 221B.
A year after, John and Mary got married. He did not have a best man.
Two years after, Mary was diagnosed with cancer.
Two years and seven months after, John was alone again.
The silence was louder than ever.
After Mary had died, John found it more painful than ever to work at the clinic. How could he face all of these sick people every day without being brought to tears by the thought of his wife, his Mary? His Mary, who had brought beautiful music into his silent life. The kindest, gentlest, bravest, strongest woman he had ever met was gone.
He sent in his resignation notice.
He found ways to distract himself from the pain. He took up blogging again. He would go out for the occasional drink with Lestrade, who suggested that John help out a bit with some of the tougher cases. So, he did.
Every so often, John would be reminded of the skull that had adorned the mantelpiece and the man who had placed it there. When he got these thoughts, he would stare at the fireplace for a few moments wondering what had happened, then he would drag himself to the kitchen and drink until it didn't hurt so much. When this would happen, he would usually end up calling Harry, who was three years sober, and she would tuck him in, whispering that it would be okay and wiping away the tears John didn't know had fallen.
The morning following one such night, John got a call from Lestrade asking for his help on a case. John agreed to meet him in the café next door in an hour, which gave John enough time to change and clear his face of any tear stains Harry might have missed the night before.
Lestrade walked into the café with a distracted look, and John greeted him with a handshake.
Lestrade's distracted look turned into one of concern. "My God, John, you look awful, like you haven't slept in days. Something up?"
"Nice to see you too, Greg." John said with a sigh, sitting at his usual table.
"Sorry, John. It's just, you know, I worry. We all do. Ever since… you know. And then, with…" He sighed. "You-you just haven't been the same. "
"I appreciate the concern, Greg, but we're not here to discuss my wellbeing. You looked pretty preoccupied when you came in. The case troubling you?"
"No. Well, yes, but that's not what was bothering me when I came in. I thought I saw-" Lestrade broke off. He let out a sigh and ran his hand through his hair, which had, if anything, grown only grayer in the last three years. He looked vaguely in John's direction, the same distracted look adorning his face once again. "Do you… Do you ever wonder if, I don't know, maybe Sherlock's… not gone?"
John gave a sad sort of smile. "The first few weeks after, I saw him everywhere. Every stranger in London with dark hair and dark coat was accosted by me at least once. Of course I've always hoped there was some way he survived, even now, after three years. But… I saw him fall. I felt his pulse. He's gone, Greg, and we've got to accept it. How about that case, then?"
They sat and discussed the case, which John admitted was at least an eight, and then talked about rugby, and Lestrade's family's health, and the weather until John decided it was about time he got back to the flat; He'd promised Mrs. Hudson he'd join her for lunch.
Before he left the café, Lestrade turned back to John and hesitated for a moment before saying, "It'll get better, John. Maybe someday someone'll show up who'll make everything you're going through seem a bit easier." And with a small smile, he turned and left.
John made his way up to the flat. As he wiped his feet on the mat, he became aware that something was wrong. The deep silence that usually pervaded 221B was being disrupted by some sort of noise coming from the kitchen – Mrs. Hudson. John had assumed he'd be going to her flat, but he was perfectly fine with her cooking here. He stepped into the living room and froze in his tracks.
There, in its place as though it had never disappeared, was the skull. John took several tentative steps toward it and was about to touch it to make sure it was real when a deep voice sounded behind him.
"Tea?"
John turned, looked at the man, standing there in a ridiculous floral apron, holding a tea tray, said "Oh. It's you." And then blacked out.