John knew it’d be easier to move on with his life, to forget about Sherlock. He knew it’d be easier yet, to imagine they’d never met, settle down, find a wife, have kids, move to the country, grow old and die. Die. He’d seen death, stared it in the face, but one doesn’t think about death until someone they love dies. It doesn’t really click until it takes someone away from you, until it leaves you crushed and alone until the day it can take you too. And then it hits your chest like a ton of bricks, weighing you down until you can’t take it anymore, and your will to live is lost. John knew it’d be easier to forget his best friend, but that didn’t stop him going on as if he were right next to him. Because sometimes a fresh wound hurts less than a scar.
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