John had buried his flatmate three hours ago; it was still hard to believe. Sherlock had been so exciting, energetic, so-so full of life. Bouncing around the room from experiment to experiment, rambling on and on about the science of deduction, complaining about how John was taking too long making the tea, or even standing by the window, swaying along to the music he made with his violin.

It didn't make sense for him to be dead.

John didn't want to believe it, and the longer he stared at the empty chair across from him, the more he fought the thought that Sherlock was gone.

He passed the first 24 hours staring at that empty chair, waiting for a figure to climb onto the cushion and crouch in place. The next 48 hours were spent sorting through the flat. Experiments that dealt with things that had once been alive were tossed into a biohazard bag. Clothing was sorted into piles. (Some of the dressing gowns, the Belstaff, scarf, and the gloves that Sherlock favored were stored in a separate box in the bottom shelf of John’s wardrobe. Sherlock’s violin, skull, and many notebooks filled with scientific theories were stashed with them as well.) Old books and equipment were set aside in a pile to be donated to St. Bart's.

It was only once everything had been sorted, the flat cleared of everything that screamed Sherlock, that John let himself grieve. Countless nights were spent on the couch in tears, wrapped in a dressing gown and watching documentaries on bees. Countless others spent screaming out his best friend's name in terror as he watched him fall again and again and again. Each time with a different speech, a different landing, a different goodbye.

And tonight, John sat at his desk staring at his laptop. The page it was opened to was his blog; the day he met Sherlock Holmes to be specific.

“John.” Molly Hooper spoke from the doorway. “You can't keep living like this. Please, come with me to Bart’s. I know… there are bad memories there, but I need an assistant and you need to get your mind straightened up.”

John closed his eyes as she spoke, fighting back the images that kept appearing behind his eyes of Sherlock’s body on the pavement.