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One full year passed without a glimpse of Sherlock again. The man had vanished for good. John knew, he knew the moment he walked out of that broken door that this was it. Yet it didn't stop him from going over and over to that broken house again. As if his soul was trapped there. It was. It was missing with Sherlock. It was last seen in that wreckage beside the sick man. John had body, John had bones, John had a vital organ called heart which still pumped life fluid into him but he didn't have the soul. Sometimes at night John would wonder what exactly heart was or where exactly a man hurt when he was in pain. The organ seemed to work fine, too fine for John's comfort. But there was this insistent pain. As if he had accidentally swallowed a stone and it stuck somewhere between his throat and chest.
Most of the time John was lost in his thoughts, it would take calling his name more than once to get his attention. He spoke very little and spent most of his time alone. He was still nice to people but just not companionable anymore. Only those who were closest to him remained in his life. He was thankful for that. He didn't need many people. Many people, much talk, much reminders of Sherlock.
He wasn't happy but he was okay.
He wasn't living but he was coping.
Mary came to visit many times. She tried to console him, comfort him, she tried to rekindle their relationship. To no avail. The John she knew, the John they knew was gone. Some man had come from the mist and had dragged him with him into it.
Most of the time John's vision was clouded. He was looking but not seeing. living but not feeling. He was sleep walking through life.
Most of the time he would forget something. He would forget that he had already made tea and went to make another cup. He would forget that he was supposed to have dinner with Harry and Clara and stood them up. He would end up at the hospital on off days. He wouldn't call back anyone and would hardly go out with someone.
Harry insisted that he see a psychiatrist. He stubbornly declined.
Sometimes he couldn't believe that a full year had passed since he last saw Sherlock. The memory of each and every time they had met was so vivid that it felt like yesterday. Many times John thought he had miscalculated the time but every time he was proven wrong.
The mist didn't have anything to offer him anymore.
The nightmares didn't help the situation either. He would hardly sleep every night and most of the time would wake up in sweat and dread.
He would dream of Sherlock writhing on the ground somewhere, unable to get up and eventually giving up.
He would dream of Sherlock smiling at him lying in a grave.
He would dream of Sherlock lying in a pool of blood waiting for him to come and save him.
He would dream of Sherlock running towards him in a snow covered landscape but just before he could reach there would be an echoing gunshot. Sherlock's eyes widened taking in John for one last time then falling on the snow. Closing those magnificent, all knowing, all seeing colourful eyes forever.
John would run but before he could reach him he would wake shivering and crying.
It was one of those nights when he had such a dream. He had had enough he thought sitting up on his bed. He wanted to escape. London reminded too much of Sherlock. It felt like living in Sherlock. He needed to move out. He knew others would agree. At least it was a better option than killing himself. He couldn't spend his life being this miserable. New city, new people, new surroundings, his heart and mind would get busy in storing new information so much that it would dig up memories much less. Maybe, just maybe his pain would ease. Even though just a little bit.
John trudged down stairs and put the kettle on, it was 2:45 in the morning. He felt horrible. It would have been so much better if he had just known that Sherlock was dead. At least he could sleep. Knowing full well that all his nightmares were true, there was nothing he could do to prevent them now. He couldn't live with not knowing anymore.
As soon as the thought crossed his mind he heard a fumbling knock on the front door.
Who could be at this time of the night?
With a moment of hesitation John put the kettle off and stealthily went down the stair. The thought of taking his gun had crossed his mind but then he shrugged it off thinking that this was his life and not some suspense novel. It was too dark to see. It had snowed, the snow glistened like a white silk duvet in the dark cold night. John tugged his woolly dressing gown closer to fight the cold.
"Who is it?" he asked warily.
He heard a moan, somehow it sounded like his name.
He cracked the door cautiously, the cold wind slapped him on the face. He shivered and looked down to find a dark figure on his knees on the stairs. He had his arms around him and was swaying.
By the light above the door he saw two very familiar grey-blue, piercing eyes look up to him slowly.
"Help me John." The man croaked.