A month had passed since Sherlock had left him. It'd taken at least that long if not longer to visit his friends grave. He'd done that too many times now. This wasn't the first time he'd had to go through losing his best friend. Neither time was it easier. His throat was dry as he stood at Sherlock's headstone, unsure what to do or what to say. He'd been there for god knew how long and still hadn't come up with anything. Monologues ran through his mind, but nothing through his lips. Why was it so hard?
He had a million things to say the day before, standing before that black stone he had nothing. He cold barely even touch it with a shaky hand. He had nothing. Nothing.Blond brows furrowed together as he traced the golden letters carved into the rock. Sherlock Holmes Simple, appropriate. He wouldn't have wanted anything more. His hand brushed the top of the smoothed rock soothingly as if trying to tell him somehow that everything would be okay. One day maybe he would be happy, and even some day John might find happiness again too.
Chewing at his lower lip he moved his hand and let it fall limply by his side. It was hot out, but John barely noticed these types of things anymore. Little details just didn't matter without Sherlock by his side to bitch about them. His throat was dry. He felt in his pocket for his wallet and upon thumbing at it a great deal of tension seemed to fade from his shoulders. He could afford drinks again since he'd begun work at Queen Industries. The only problem was he needed to be more careful about turning off his phone. He needed to be more wary of which bars he hit so as to avoid people he knew.
Looking at his watch, he turned to walk away from Sherlock's grave. It was only noon, but hell that meant it was after five somewhere in the word. As he prepared to leave Sherlocks grave he stared down at his feet. They refused to move no matter how much he tried to will them into it. "Stubborn git." John chided at the head stone softly. "As if you were a bloody saint." He knew Sherlock wasn't actually stopping him from leaving, it wasn't possible. Still there was that little voice that told him his friend was there, that voice that told him he didn't want John to wreck himself over his death. If that were true, Sherlock would have stayed. He wouldn't have drugged him, and they would still be together.
He didn't want to be there anymore, he'd been there long enough staring at nothing. All that was left was a body, Sherlock didn't believe in heaven or hell. He believed in science, and science said after you died you rotted and turned into mulch. That was all, nothing more. John wanted to convince himself that was all there was too, maybe looking at his reflection in Sherlocks grave wouldn't be so damn heart breaking, but he was wrong. He couldn't do it. It was just as Sherlock said, he had too much heart even if at that moment it felt shattered, he stil cared. Sherlock was the mind, he was the heart. But what he wouldn't give to trade places with him right then and there.
Leaning on his cane he gripped at the handle for support. Ever since Sherlock left him the world made very little sense, he was relying on his cane again, he was wasting his nights away staring at walls or getting piss drunk, the world was a little more gray.