Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.
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He was back.
Again.
Back to the tiny hotel room.
Back to seeing his therapist.
Back to staring at the blinking cursor with nothing to say.
The first week or two after, he couldn't go anywhere without someone from the press following him. Lestrade had offered to make the vultures clear off, and maybe he had because they were no longer circling. John didn't know or care. It was far easier to pretend certain people didn't exist. Like Lestrade. Donovan. Anderson. Mycroft.
He couldn't avoid Mrs. Hudson, and he didn't really want to. She was grieving too, and he visited the grave with her a few times.
Other times, he went alone.
He was surprised at how easy it was for him to approach the gravesite and stand over his dead friend, considering he couldn't go anywhere near Baker Street. Or the Yard. Or Barts.
The grief was bad, but the anger was worse. He felt sick and cold whenever he thought of the injustice of it all—how the world had so quickly turned against his friend and driven him to death. He still didn't understand what had happened, how it had happened, how he had let it happen.
And now, he was right back where he had started from.
He didn't know what he was supposed to do next.