John was okay.
That's what he told everyone. Told himself. Almost believed it too.
He didn't want to stay in bed forever, didn't feel the need to find the highest building he could and fly off of it like Sherlock had once done to him.
He was keeping it together. Really.
He was as shocked as everyone else was. Just as disbelieving. But he managed to get out of bed every morning, still living in the flat where Sherlock Holmes, the great consulting detective, had lived and died. Make himself tea and everything, and sat down in his chair to read the paper.
Sure, he felt a pang in his chest when the chair opposite him was perpetually lonely, but that was as bad as it was.
He almost felt ashamed. No, he did feel ashamed.
It wasn't as if he felt happy, no, that certainly wasn't true. It was more of an... emptiness. Blank. Maybe he was a sociopath now, like Sherlock had once claimed to be. Was it really that long ago?
John let out a bitter laugh.
He looked around, ashamed that Sherlock may have heard.
He didn't. He's dead stupid.
He was restless.
The surgery was fine, but Sarah wouldn't give him many shifts, and it was rather mundane. It had been fine when he had Sherlock to go home to and cases to run around on, but as the only thing in his life, it just couldn't cut it.
So he gave Sarah his notice, and she looked concerned but understanding.
Don't think you know what I'm feeling he wanted to tell her.
But he never did.
He signed up to go back to Afghanistan.
He didn't think they'd let him, but they did.
He suspected a minor government official had a hand in it.
He didn't care.
It wasn't the same, obviously.
But it was familiar. It gave him that same feeling. A mixture of terror and awe and fear and calm. He'd missed it after Sherlock had gotten sick. He would never have admitted it to him, but it was true.