The first month was the hardest.
The first month was the hardest. John soon discovered that. In his mind he kept replaying the scene over and over again. Trying to find any thing that could have helped Sherlock. Trying to find a way in which the man could have survived. He had even managed to hack into Lestrade's computer one evening, he would never explain how, and obtain the CCTV footage outside St Barts that day. He had watched Sherlock fall repeatedly. Watched Sherlock died repeatedly. Every time he watched something inside of him cracked.
He didn't know why he kept watching the tape. He just knew he had to. His eyes were often glued to the screen. As if he could find something wrong. Something that wasn't right. Something that would mean Sherlock would be alive! John forgot to sleep most nights and had almost given up on eating. The people who visited him became no more than distant blurs. Only one person mattered.
The days grew longer as the month progressed. He doubted the length of time. Almost denying it when people would correct him. It felt like he was trapped in time. Glued to the spot from which he saw his life tumble to the ground. He couldn't move. He couldn't do anything but watch the inevitable. In his dreams he knew what was coming. Always the fall. The blood.
When it did hit a month since the event, John sat in his chair. Staring blankly at the skull that now took his friend's place. He treated the skull as Sherlock had. Like a human that deserved his respect. His companionship. He pretended that the skull was his friend. There with him. He pleaded with Sherlock to talk back and not be dead. The skull didn't listen.
After the month had past the days became even longer. No sooner had it been a month had it been a year. A year soon dissolved into two which within little time at all amounted to three. Three years resembled a day to John Watson. A long painful day. The first month being the one that would haunt John forever.