John needed Sherlock, without him he was so completely lost it was almost like he didn't know how to function without him. He was so alone before he'd met the detective, he owed him so much. Sherlock had given him hope, and now that he was gone he'd taken it all away with him. John was crushed. She was in a place he wouldn't be for a very long time, past tense. Sherlock was still his, still there. He hadn't lost him yet. His hands shook as he wiped at his eyes and tried to stop the emotion from escaping them. It didn't work. The tears kept coming but they were quiet now.
"I could have helped. I could have done something." Anything had been better then being drugged and unaware where he even was. After John had received Sherlock's phone call it was like his entire world went black. He hadn't even known where he was for twenty four hours. Sherlock had been alone when he died and that hurt John even more. John was exhausted, he still had some of Moriarty's blood on him, still had Sherlock's on him. "It's just a nightmare. I'm going to wake up tomorrow and it'll be fine. He'll be fine."
He wasn't coping. He couldn't. Not twice, nobody could ask him to do that. It was just too much. He broke down again. His eyes were red with emotion and his body was weak from exhaustion. He hadn't slept, hadn't been able to eat, he'd barely stopped since he shot Moriarty. He was ready to stop. He was ready to give up and just never start again. If he laid on the floor with Florence and Sherlock for the rest of his life would that really have been so bad?