John didn't know what to think anymore. Some people told him it was okay to grieve, others told him he needed to move on. He wasn't sure if he could do either. He wanted to be there for his friends, to live in the world, but how could he with a constant reminder of everything that he lost arriving in town all over again? Two reminders really. Moriarty and Sherlock. It was like his nightmares had somehow found a way to claw there way out of his brain and back into reality. Moriarty was in the corner of the room trapped in salt, John didn't even look at him.
He knew Rose was going through things as well and the world kept spinning with or without Sherlock, but to John it felt like his entire world stopped that night. Just talking to Sherlock was hard, brought on a string of panic attacks. It didn't matter how many things John filled his day with anymore, the seal threw things back in his face like his life was some sort of universal joke. Sherlock was dead, and it brought this new one that everyone liked. That he was supposed to befriend. There was no Sherlock Holmes without John Watson, but nobody could ask him to relive his nightmare again. Nobody. He was angry and hurt at the mere suggestion of it all but he held it inside the best he could until that night he snapped and paced Roses flat like a crazy person.
The sound of her voice broke his train of thought. He looked up at her with furrowed brows. and rubbed his neck uncomfortably. "Sorry." He was miserable. He'd come a long way from suicide, but he was lost without his Sherlock. He only ate the minimum amount of food his body required, he rarely smiled, and there was a look in his eyes of a broken man. When he did smile there was still a sadness on his face that hadn't faded since Sherlock left him. He knew what they all said, there was nothing he could have done. Maybe they were right, but John still felt like a horrible person. Sherlock shouldn't have died alone. He should have been there, even if he couldn't have stopped Moriarty he should have been with him.
The most he could do was chat on the damn cell phone, what sort of comfort was that? It weighed on him like a sack of bricks and he tried to move on. He really did, but he just couldn't. John joined her as well as the puppy, jumping up onto the couch between them both exactly where John hadn't wanted him. He put his face in his hands and just rubbed at his eyes. "It's never going to end."
Being with Rose helped, but Moriarty did not. He tried to focus more on Rose instead, but he really had difficulty focusing at all on anything. He hadn't written hardly anything at all save for internet posts, and he barely left the flat anymore unless it was required or he was pressured into it.
Part of him longed for adventures with Sherlock again, but the other was terrified. It was an inner battle of poorly played chess, neither side was really winning it was just doing what was necessary to get by without getting hurt anymore.
He reached out for the teacup, his hand shaking some with stress.