Today was exactly three years from the day he watched Sherlock jump to his death. It didn't feel like three years, mainly because it didn't seem like any time had passed. He still saw that horrible scene in his dreams several times a week. He would still go out of his way to avoid passing the street that hospital lay on. Time was supposed to make pain ease, but he didn't feel any pain leaving him.
There was a difference between coping and healing. Sure, he had learned how to cope. In the beginning he was barely existing. Days and nights merged into one long nightmare. He didn't have anything to distract him like he did now with his work. He would sit in the flat for hours on end not moving, listening to the horrible silence that filled the air without Sherlock's dialog. He could hardly sleep; every time he did horrible nightmares would jar him awake so soon after he had fallen asleep. He would always have that same nightmare of watching Sherlock's body fall from the roof to the ground, seeing his blood splattered against the pavement. He was used to nightmares; he had flashbacks of Afghanistan often after returning from the war. But now he was much more unable to cope. Whenever he would have a nightmare from Afghanistan he would jolt awake in fear, but would always hear Sherlock muttering to himself in the other room or hear the soft sound of one of his melodies on the violin and somehow after that, he was able to drift soundly back to sleep. Now, with the silence, he was unsettled.
He would rarely eat; he might go days without eating. Even now he showed next to no interest in food. But back then he might have starved himself to sickness had it not been for Mrs. Hudson. He did what he could to hide his true hurt from her but in a way she could see it. In those early days after Sherlock's death she would see to it that he would eat, often inviting him to have dinner with her, or even just leaving a meal on his table while he sat in silence, staring off into the abyss. He knew that she was worried about him; as he deteriorated further and further she took to visiting him often during the day even if was to just 'pop in' and say hello. He could see the look in her eyes, she was afraid that he might do something reckless like kill himself.
Not that the idea had never crossed his mind. It had, it just wasn't an option. While it would have been a welcome relief to be free from the pain he faced, he felt that after outliving many friends in the war it would have been ungrateful to throw his life away now. One particularly ugly night he had held a gun in his hand, moving the cold metal around his shaking hands, trying to think of a reason not to do it. He hadn't really come up with much, but still, the night ended with John throwing the gun into a bin and polishing off the last bottle he had in the house until he had passed out on the floor. Definitely the low point.
Now he had learned how to cope. Life was still difficult, and while he still spent most time at home with a bottle and a raw heart, he had pulled himself out of the utter despair that he had felt then. Mrs. Hudson had been the one to suggest he begin working as a doctor again. He was glad that she had for the silence and loneliness had become almost too much to bear. It was easy at work with so much to do, to forget temporarily about what had happened. He was always reminded again when he returned to the flat, but at least most of his waking hours were accounted for.
Mrs. Hudson obviously had not been the one to suggest that he move into another flat. Actually she had done everything to convince him to stay, but after two years of staring at Sherlock's things, left exactly as he left them, he finally had moved to another, much smaller and affordable flat. He hated it, but he just couldn't bear to stay in the house any longer. It was a constant reminder of all that he had lost and he just had to get out. Still, he couldn't manage to throw Sherlock's things out. He had carefully packed them up and placed them in storage. For what reason, he had no idea. He had no intention of ever going through them item though, he kept to himself; Sherlock's violin. He didn't know why, but for some reason he simply couldn't bear to not have a part of Sherlock close to him. He kept it in his closet in his room; not in immediate sight to be a constant reminder, but close enough that he could still run his fingers over the smooth wood of the violin when he was feeling particularly down.
John stared at the calendar and thought about all the pain the past three years had brought him. He tried to think on the good times that him and Sherlock had had but today was a solemn day. It was not for happy memories.
John looked out the window; even the weather seemed to sense the mood of the day and change its feelings accordingly. The sun which had been shining was beginning to hide behind some ominous dark clouds that were rolling in.
John sighed. If he was going to make his journey before it rained, he must make it soon. His heart was heavy as he pulled himself from his chair.