The ReturnThe nights were long and the days even longer. John sat in his armchair watching the shadows move as morning turned to evening and mourning turned to numbness. It had taken him weeks to be able to return to the flat. Some of Sherlock's equipment sat in cardboard boxes in the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson hadn't returned since John had broken down over a smashed Burette. She'd argued that it doesn't matter that it had broken, that he wouldn't be needing it. John, being in denial of the whole matter, cut the tips of his fingers as he fumbled around trying hopelessly to put the glass pieces together.The Return by johnlockcat
Nearly a month and a half had passed since the suicide. John stopped going to therapy. His therapist was convinced that reliving the trauma would allow him to accept what had happened and move on. However John couldn't stop reliving it. The final call, his note, like a cassette in his head that replayed when it was finished. John had got to the point where days and nights were one and the same.