"It's been 3 months since the fall. His fall. I'm supposed to keep a journal of my daily activities.
It's been exactly 3 months. It hurts, a lot, to think that I will never see him again, but I've accepted that. It gets better as time goes on, doesn't it? That's what people say. I don't know that I believe that.
I bought a new brand of coffee today. The label says it's from Colombia. It's good, but different."
John had taken to seeing his old therapist again, the one who Mycroft had told him to get rid of. One of the few decent things Mycroft had ever said to John was to can the therapist, but John still went to her anyways. He partially did it to spite Mycroft, in a secret way. John loathed him now, after knowing that he was responsible for Sherlock's death, in a round-about way. John had received a letter in the post from Mycroft a couple of months ago, and immediately seeing who it was from, ripped it up. About a week later, John was graced with a man under Mycroft's employment to hand-deliver another letter, and to apparently ensure that the letter was read. Reluctantly, John had read it and after getting through the unfeeling condolences, got to a part where Mycroft was saying that he knew John would be needing financial help, so he had taken the freedom to deposit 10 000 pounds into his bank account. "No thanks are necessary," it read, "I just want to help out the only person who meant something to my brother." John still wasn't entirely sure that Sherlock had cared about him, and the query plagued him. The money also didn't change his opinion of Mycroft.
Only 2 weeks ago had John found a temporary job. He was filling in for a receptionist on maternity leave at St. Bart's hospital in the orthopedic centre. Of course it had to be the building where Sherlock jumped, but it was also the building where Molly worked – the one other person who could relate to John and even somewhat understand his emotions. However much he loved Mrs. Hudson, and hated knowing that she was alone at Baker Street now, he couldn't go back there yet. He had taken Mrs. Hudson out to lunch a month back at a café down the street, and he occasionally called her, but even those activities were difficult to do.
A couple of days after he started his job, he thought he'd give dating a cautious shot again, and asked a nice blonde named Lisa, who worked at the same desk, out for lunch. She, too, like most of London, recognized John and had visited his blog before, and knew about Sherlock. She didn't mention Sherlock until their break was almost over and they were hanging up their coats, but nonetheless she saw his eyes grow even more sad and grave, and didn't ask to go on another date. John wondered if he would ever be able to date a woman who didn't know Sherlock, and who had never mourned for him, or wished he would bustle about not saying a word to you about what he was doing, apart from "case work."
Yesterday, John couldn't say he was happy. But he couldn't say he was unhappy either. Tomorrow would be the same. Today, he couldn't go into work. He sat in his new, but tiny, flat, with a fresh bottle of whisky in hand and cane resting on the arm of his chair. It seemed that this was going to be the trend every month on this day; because it was the day he lost Sherlock for good.
John hadn't seen Molly before he started working at the hospital, but she seemed fine. Great, actually, and just like her normal self. He was glad to see that she was well, but then she didn't know Sherlock like John had. They went out to coffee at least once a week, and tried to avoid the unavoidable – Sherlock. Even a fleeting thought of Sherlock was a dull sinking in his heart, and he swore it stopped beating when he thought of his friend. But he was comforted by Molly and her optimism, and he was awfully glad to have her around. Still, even if they were actually friends now, there would still always be an ache in his heart named Sherlock.