For two years John struggled, through depression and anger that eventually led to drinking. He wasn't shy about it at first, spending most nights in the bar, but eventually he got tired of the murmuring amongst the others, Molly going so far as to bring up his sister's drinking habit.
After a while, John found himself hiding out in his small run down flat, managing to sober up only long enough to attend the surgery a few times a week. Mrs. Hudson would come by to check on him, making a few comments here and there about getting out and finding another one, but he gave her empty promises that she easily picked up on as she cleaned up the flat around him.
A few times Lestrade attempted to come by, to make amends, but it all fell flat when the door was abruptly slammed in his face, John not having the time or emotional capacity to deal with the man that allowed this all to happen in the first place, that betrayed all of their trust as he escorted Sherlock into the public eye with his wrists cuffed.
It was no surprise to John that Mycroft never bothered to come by, he couldn't even be bothered to attend the funeral of his own brother, let alone visit the broken man he left behind. John failed to notice in his continuous state of alcohol and self-pity the frequent deposits made into his bank account, small enough to seem inconspicuous, but enough to keep him from getting kicked out of his flat.
The nightmares got progressively worse over the years, the terror of the war intermingling with Sherlock's death, and it was those nights he hit the bottle the hardest, painfully aware of the hangover he would have in the morning, the time long since passed that he could hold his hand steady enough to establish his own IV line, administer his own concoction of medications and fluid to quail the painful retching that always followed a night of blood filled dreams.
In the beginning he would get complaints from his neighbors, worries that the horrendous screaming coming from his flat at night were that of someone he was torturing, but after a while they realized it was only he who had been tortured, and they eventually moved away, unable to handle the screams emanating from the flat night after night.
The two year anniversary of Sherlock's death was the hardest, a struggle to get out of bed, to drag himself into the shower to wash off three days' worth of body odor that had settled over him since his last shift at the surgery.
He stared at himself in the mirror for a good while, debating on whether or not to shave the thick beard that had grown over the past few weeks, realizing that it had aged him a good bit. After a short battle with himself he finally decided it would be for the best, realizing that this might be the last time for a while he would be sober enough to accomplish the task without creating a bloody mess.
Although his hands continued to shake he took his time, knicking himself only twice before washing his face off, his hair still wet from the shower, his robe hanging loosely off of his thinned frame.
He aged more so than the two years that Sherlock had been gone, his hair considerably more gray and worry lines creasing his face. The amount of time spent stationary, lying in bed or sitting on the couch with a bottle in his hands caused his joints to feel stiffer, aching when he stood up. If Sherlock were still in his life, he couldn't imagine being able to chase anyone down in the condition he found himself in.
When he finally managed to pull himself away from the pathetic notion of a man he found himself staring at in the reflection of the mirror, John returned to his bedroom, pulling on the only suit he managed to find in his wardrobe that didn't absolutely consume him. If anything the extra space made it appear to the outside world that he was still a whole man underneath, that a part of him didn't physically and emotionally die outside of St. Bart's that day.
After one last look in the mirror, John grabbed his suit jacket and left the flat, considering only momentarily on whether or not to hail a cab, eventually settling on walking the short distance to his destination.
He kept his head down in fear of being recognized, not wanting to see the pitiful looks staring back at him, the low whispers about the former blogger of the long dead consulting detective. Having Sherlock's name finally cleared only created an excess of unwanted sympathy for John, and he found himself pulling away even more so recently, ignoring the soft knocks at the door from Mrs. Hudson or Molly.
As he reached the cemetery John couldn't help but pause at the iron gate, taking a deep breath as he looked at the vast expanse of marble and stone markers, some centuries old, others day new. Off to his left a woman stood in front of a fresh grave, tears streaming from her eyes as she clutched a bouquet of flowers to her chest, her lips moving in silent words.
She didn't appear to notice John as he walked past her, his gaze set off in a spot towards the back of the cemetery, along the edge of the trees, somewhat secluded. The grass was neatly trimmed around the black marble, a sign that someone had been taking care of it, and he wondered if it were just the cemetery workers, or if someone other than himself bothered visiting it anymore. He decided on the latter when he noticed the small bouquet of flowers sitting at the base, the edges showing no sign of wilting, a sign that they were only recently placed in the past twenty-four hours.
"I guess I'm not the only one who remembered." The words were quiet, John not sure who they were directed at exactly. He stood in the same spot many times over the years, his words coming fewer and far between, eventually leading to short silent visits that mostly consisted of John wishing he could wake up from the horrible nightmare he found himself in. The visits were always ended with a light touch of the headstone and a silent prayer for Sherlock not to be dead, but after two years and the development of a drinking habit, John found his thoughts empty, his hand heavy as he touched the headstone.
He searched within himself for some sort of emotion, anger or despair, anything, but he only felt empty, his hand shaking after a moment, not stopping when he let it drop to his side. He squeezed it into a fist, trying to stop it, but his attempts were futile, his fingernails digging into the skin of his palm as he turned to leave, the tremors finally leaving his hand as his eyes locked on the figure in front of him.
"Hello John."
The next chapter is most likely the last. Since the beginning I've considered ending it on a not so happy note, but after reading and re-reading and putting a lot of thought into it, I think I've come up with the perfect ending. I've also lowered the rating from mature, don't hate me for that. I hope you come back for the end.