AN: I couldn't find any one specific sort of grief cycle, and the general consensus was that it was different for everyone, so I mostly made my own based on a couple of different one.


He ran towards Sherlock in a daze, running into the cyclist being of no help whatsoever. God no... no... no...his mind was chanting, all it could do.


"No. Don't. No. SHERLOCK! Sher... Sherlock, Sherlock... I'm a doctor, let me come through. Let me come through, please. No, he's my friend. He's my friend. Please. Please, let me just... Nggh, Jesus, no. God, no."

Even afterwards, John still forgot that Sherlock was gone, forgot that he wasn't going to come home.

John couldn't bear to live in 221b anymore without him, so he moved in with Sarah for a few days.

That way he could pretend he was just staying the night and that when he got home, Sherlock would deduce that he'd slept on the lilo.


He went to Sherlock's grave with Mrs Hudson, and fury suddenly grew from John at the sight of her.

How dare he do that to her. To us.

The poor woman didn't know what to do with herself. One of her tenants had died and the other had moved out. John felt like he needed to apologize.

"I can't go back to the flat again – not at the moment. I'm angry."

Those were his words to Mrs Hudson. But not that angry. Not so angry that it didn't dissipate in order for him to let out a tear.


Ella had told him to do it. "There's stuff that you wanted to say ... but didn't say it." "Yeah." "Say it now."

Doesn't she understand? I can't say it now. I couldn't say it then, so what does him being dead have any bloody thing to do with it?

What if I did say them? (Doesn't matter, can't change it.) But... still... Would it have changed anything?

"No. Sorry. I can't."


"Please, there's just one more thing, mate, one more thing: one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't... be... dead. Would you? Just for me, just stop it. Stop this."

He went home and prayed. Went to church. Prayed. Prayed. Prayed.


He lost his faith.


He stayed home for a long time. Didn't work, didn't go out, didn't answer calls.

Stayed home and marinated in his melancholy.

Wrote thousands of blog posts and published none.

Stopped going to see Ella. She was of no help anyway. Mycroft was right a thousand years ago. He should have fired her.


John got a new job. He worked in an A&E department. It kept him busy.

He healed.

But he never forgot.