Diu.

mirabilelectu:

You can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness,
Like resignation to the end, always the end.

John tries to hold on to him, at first. Tries to go on pretending that nothing has changed, that there isn’t a gaping hole in his life where Sherlock should be. He continues on as normal, carries on their normal routines. For a while, it even works a little.

For a while, he can pretend that Sherlock is there with him. The weight of familiarity helps a bit. Going on cab rides, sitting in the flat, eating dinner, all the things he used to do with Sherlock can still be done without thinking. And when he doesn’t think, doesn’t remember, he can imagine that Sherlock is sitting next to him where he should be. That Sherlock is still there.

He leaves a space for Sherlock next to him in the cab. He sets a cup of tea next to Sherlock’s chair as if he has just stepped out of the room and will be back in a moment. He keeps an ear tuned for Sherlock coming back in the door late at night from a case. He makes sure there is a plate for Sherlock at dinner, even if the silly git will never eat it. And sometimes, although John would never admit it to anyone, it’s just like Sherlock is there. He can see him, frowning over his paper or steepling his fingers under his chin, or hear him puttering around the kitchen with his experiments.

But one day, he doesn’t. One day, John sets a place for Sherlock, and feels nothing. He looks at the empty plate, the empty chair, the empty flat, and he understands. Sherlock is gone. And he is not coming back. Never, no matter how hard John pretends. No matter how John may cling to the past, Sherlock is not still alive, not still a part of his life. Sherlock has just become someone John used to know, that is all.