For the next year, John goes through the motions of a normal life. He goes to work, makes tea, flirts with the girls in the cafe and at the corner store, goes out on a few dates that invariably do not lead to second dates, and continues to visit Sherlock's grave. John gives all the outward appearances of a man moving on with his life, but John knows better. He has felt that presence again on several occasions in the graveyard, and the one time he brings it up with Mycroft, a look of genuine concern comes over the man's face. Mycroft suggests that John call his therapist, and John never brings up the subject again.
The feeling isn't there every time he visits Sherlock's grave. A few months will go by, in which John is able to convince himself he was making the whole thing up, and then there it is again; that feeling of being watched, of being observed. John's mouth goes dry when he thinks of this word. He thinks maybe he really is going mad. But he can't shake the feeling, and realises he doesn't want to, that the presence in the graveyard, whatever it is, is actually comforting. Like a favorite pair of slippers or a cuppa after a wretched day. He can't allow himself to hope, he can't, and yet he does. One bright sunny day in May, when the sky is blue and the sun is shining and birds are singing, he feels that presence, and it may be a load of bollocks, but it feels like Sherlock. Hope is born in John's heart, and for the first time he allows himself to think maybe.
Over the next few months, John fluctuates between thinking he's insane and really, truly believing that somewhere, somehow, Sherlock is alive. At first, he wouldn't let himself think that word, alive, because too much depended on that one little word. But now, now he can't stop thinking it. It's the first thing on his mind when he wakes up and the last thing he thinks before he goes to sleep. All day, at the clinic, at the Tesco, watching telly, in the shower, one thought, clear and bright, eclipses all the rest: Alive.
Some days the word makes him so happy he can't stop grinning; the silly, idiot grin of one who is in love or just won the lottery. That's what it feels like on those good days, like he won the lottery. Like he is the luckiest man on earth because somewhere, somehow, his best friend, the man who saved John Watson from himself, is alive.
Other days the word drives him mad. He saw Sherlock lying on the pavement, broken and bloodied. It was Sherlock; no one else it could have been. He felt the man's (absence of) pulse. Sherlock is dead. Dead dead dead. And no amount of wishing or pretending can change that. So why won't that word just leave him alone? Alive. It is a curse. John Watson's curse upon himself.
On those bad days, John does his best to shut out the word his unrelenting brain insists on foisting upon his mind. He thinks about work, about sex, about anything but Sherlock, but even after all this time, Sherlock is all there is. He is all there ever was.
On the good days, John tries to put the puzzle together. He keeps coming back to one idea: Sherlock was not a fake. John knows it, will die defending him, so why did Sherlock take his own life, if not out of shame? John doesn't know, but it's this idea that keeps his hope alive, even on the worst of days.
Two years after Sherlock's (apparent) suicide, John again feels as if someone is watching him at Sherlock's grave. This time he knows who it is. He looks around, even calls out, but gets no answer.
John talks to Lestrade. He talks to Mrs. Hudson. He talks to Molly. He even talks to Mycroft. He tells them: Sherlock is alive, alive damn it. Each time, with each person, the response is the same: a sad, sympathetic smile, and a suggestion to call his therapist – it's been a while since you've had an appointment. Molly cries.
John doesn't need a bloody therapist, he needs his best friend back. He feels as if he is coming apart at the seams, wonders if maybe they're right, and he is really truly losing his mind. He sees Sherlock everywhere now. Walking down the street, he sees a swirl of black coat slipping into an alleyway. A dark curly head of hair disappearing into a cab. One day he comes home to Baker Street and hears violin music wafting from the flat. He rushes up the stairs, bursts through the door...but the flat is empty, Sherlock's violin still sitting in its case. He realises belatedly that the music is coming from Mrs. Hudson's flat. He goes down to talk with her and maybe have a cuppa, only to burst into tears when she answers her door. She holds him and comforts him as best she can, knowing that nothing she does will be good enough, and worrying about this man who she has come to love like her own son.
