To say that John Watson backslid would be a major understatement.
While he had been mourning the loss of Sherlock already, Mycroft's information sent John spiraling for nearly two months. Days, weeks went by where he felt as cold and emotionless as the machine he had accused Sherlock of being. He'd spend his days holed up in the flat either staring off into space, reading and re-reading Sherlock's case files, or simply wandering from room to room. His nights were spent doing much of the same after he'd lay in bed for hours, fruitlessly trying to sleep. The insomnia might have bothered him under normal circumstances, but in the situation he found himself in, it was almost a blessing. The intense lack of sleep left him feeling numb, empty- he felt like he would just ghost through his days.
Sometimes, when his restlessness got the best of him and sleep would not come, he would take to the streets, hoping to tire himself out. Every so often it worked, but most of the time, he found himself wandering around outside for hours, barely even realizing what he was doing; he was that sleep deprived, that detached. Everything felt like a dreamlike state.
He welcomed it with open arms.
After about four months of battling both numbness and depression, John woke up one day feeling different. It was by no means happiness, it was by no means peace. But it wasn't depression, and it wasn't nothing, so he counted it as progress. At his next therapy appointment, he brought it up to his therapist.
She was pleased, but wary. She had watched John grieve, hit depression, shove all his feelings away, appear better for a little while, and then completely crash. She had watched John come in, completely destroyed by the guilt he insisted on feeling, and no matter what she said, it didn't make a difference to him.
To say that John Watson had hit rock bottom would be an understatement.
However, it was after the first month of being at the bottom that John began to feel just a little better. In the weeks after that, he managed to have some genuinely good days. He managed real smiles, real laughter. Nearly three months later, he found himself meeting up with coworkers outside of work. With Sherlock's money being sent in from Mycroft, John never needed to pay rent and he never needed to work for food money, but he found it to be a good distraction.
By the fourth month, he was actually enjoying his job and could manage entire days not thinking about Sherlock.
John was doing so well, and pleased his therapist. And yet she still worried.
Of course, things weren't as wonderful as John acted like they were.
Of course, he still hurt.
Of course, there were still nightmares.
"How are you sleeping, John?"
A dark look came over John's face. He had been so amicable lately, much more cheerful, but at the mention of the nightmares, his smile was always erased instantly. "Fine. I'm sleeping fine," He tried to brush it off.
The therapist raised her eyebrows at him. "Fine? You told me last week you were still having nightmares, and the dark circles under your eyes are telling me that this week isn't any different."
John sighed. "Fine, yeah, I suppose the nightmares are still happening. I don't always remember them, but Mrs. Hudson says every so often she wakes up to me yelling out."
"Yelling what, John?"
"Sherlock. Just 'Sherlock.' That's all it ever is."
"So you've been having nightmares about his death?"
John hesitated. "About his fall, yes."
She scrutinized him. "I'm a little confused. You've been doing so well, going through all of the steps, healing and coming to terms. I don't understand why now, suddenly, you aren't acknowledging it as his death or suicide."
"It's just hard to say it, still."
"It's been six months, John. Have you even tried to accept it?"
No, he hadn't. The truth of it was that one of the reasons he had been able to piece his life back together was because, once again, he was convincing himself that Sherlock wasn't actually dead. There were certain things Mycroft had said to him in their final conversation that John picked up on. Some of the things he said and the way he said them made John think Mycroft knew more than he was telling. Factor that in with the strange instances that occurred when Sherlock jumped- for instance, the sudden crowd that appeared out of absolutely nowhere, even though the streets were empty right before. It all seemed fishy.
"Have you been taking the pills I prescribed?"
"No."
"They'd help you, John."
"No," He insisted. "I don't need antidepressants. I'm fine."
She stayed silent for a moment while she glanced at the clock. "Well, that's all the time we have left for today." They both stood. "Will you at least consider the pills?"
His eyes met hers for the first time that session. "Yeah, sure," He lied with a smile.
John was truly, honestly feeling much better. He was no longer miserable. He wouldn't go so far as to call himself happy, necessarily, but then again, he hadn't even been happy before Sherlock.
Not before, not after. Only during.
To say that John missed Sherlock desperately would be an understatement.
However, John was piecing his life together, slowly but surely. He was coping. He had escaped the black depression that plagued him for months. Every so often, if he allowed himself to dwell on it, that lump of guilt would settle inside his stomach, his heart. Every so often, if the nightmares were vivid enough, he wouldn't be able to sleep for days. He was too terrified of reliving them to even try.
It wasn't even the nightmares of The Fall that were the worst.
No, the worst were the dreams that gave him hope.
The worst were the dreams where he'd be walking down the street when he would catch sight of a billowing coat, dark scarf knotted at the throat, dark unruly hair curling over the raised collar.
The worst were the dreams where he'd run, daring himself to hope. He would chase after the familiar figure, and when he would get close enough, he'd shout out the name that was still painful and too bitter to taste on his lips.
The worst were the dreams where the figure would turn, responding to the name instantly, reflexively, and John would see the pale face, light blue eyes of his best friend.
His nightmares about the fall haunted him, yes, but the dreams that played his unspoken hope against him... those were the ones he would deprive himself of sleep to avoid. It was too painful waking up, heart racing, realizing that he was still stuck there, that Sherlock was still -most likely- dead.
John had no idea by that point how to heal himself- to keep the hope he had been holding onto, or to try once more to accept Sherlock's death and move on?
It seemed like all of his attempts were futile. He resolved to let everything run its course.
And run its course, it did.
John was puttering around the flat, cleaning up a few things to occupy his mind. It had been weeks since he had any Sherlock related nightmares, but the night before broke his record streak. It was a little over seven months since The Fall, and things were almost back to normal. However, the day before, John found himself sitting in a cafe on his lunch break, staring at a man seated a few feet away from him. He frowned at the back of the man's head, resenting the dark curls and dark coat. He knew it wasn't Sherlock. He finally accepted Sherlock's death as permanent. However, the sight of his man, so similar to Sherlock, including his movements... well, it gripped his heart in a vice.
That night, he had his first nightmare in weeks.
It was one of the pseudo-hope nightmares again, only this time he heard Sherlock's voice, rather than seeing him. He woke up after he could have sworn he heard Sherlock calling his name and then bursting into laughter.
He knew it wasn't real, but crushing disappointment washed over him anyway.
The next morning, John needed to keep busy. He tidied up, organized things, packed away more of Sherlock's belongings, and finally brought himself to delete his bloody blog. It was a bittersweet moment for him, severing the last tie holding him to Sherlock. That is, until he heard his phone chime with an incoming text. Brow furrowed, he retrieved it and opened the message.
-John Watson, I'm disappointed. why did you delete your blog?
A fan of Sherlock's, most likely. It happened a lot, that people would approach him, wanting to hear more stories, seeming to ignore the obvious fact that he wouldn't -couldn't- talk about it.
He typed a message back.
-No point in keeping it with no new cases. How did you get this number?
Instantly, his phone chimed again.
-You gave it to me.
John racked his mind, trying to remember anyone he gave his number to recently. He came up with no recollections.
-I'm sorry, I've no clue who this is, but sorry to disappoint you. The blog is gone, as is Sherlock. No use keeping it.
For a moment, he actually felt maybe his message was a bit rude; he hadn't meant to come off as cross, as polite as he typically is. But this kind of thing always hit a nerve.
-Gone?
He sighed, exasperated.
-Yes, gone. It's been over half a year since Sherlock died. Come off it and leave me alone.
When his phone went off promptly after that, John considered deleting it without opening it, but once again his politeness got the best of him. He opened the message blinking at him, and felt his blood run cold.
-No, no. Not gone. Never gone. Simply absent for a while. -SH