It had been over a year. The grief he felt was all encompassing, deeper than when he thought Sherlock gone. John knew that he should give it time, he gave Sherlock time.

But his grief for Sherlock had been tamed, dampened by the act he'd done. He knew he couldn't stop it, that it was Sherlock's choice. That Moriarty had a massive role. Yes, he'd missed the man, but he found friendship, and support. Finally he'd found Mary.

Yes, their were the complications, the truth that was obscured. But Sherlock hid so much, Sherlock had complications. Sherlock was the jagged rock he needed to hold onto while he tried to keep from drowning.

Mary was the mainland. She provided shelter, safety, love. She gave John what he needed to live and grow.

Sherlock forever seemed to hold him back. Wanting him as the John 'before'.

When Mary died, Sherlock gave empty platitudes of sympathy. John knew it was either at the advice of Lestrade or Mycroft.

He sat and watched as Sherlock made tea.

He sat and watched as Sherlock placed something in the tea. John held the mug "what's in this? What did you put in it?"

Sherlock frowned "wh-"

"Sherlock" John sighed. "Either you're so distracted by your damn act of sympathy that you put...whatever in without trying or-"

"I'm not trying to experiment on you. You haven't slept in three days." Sherlock rubbed his leg