My shopping list got really depressing.
So I wrote a little drabble:
John stared down at the paper in horror, tears stinging his eyes. He picked up the paper and began crumpling it, milk and salt vanishing in the folds. But the eyes held him. Closing his eyes the image remained burned in his brain like a brand just as it had since that day.
Dropping the list back on the table he stood, reaching for his cane, standing with shaking breath. Should go back to the therapist, but they were a fool. They couldn’t possibly understand. He made his way to the door. Who needed a list anyway?
John’s hands touched Sherlock’s scarf; it still hung on it’s hook. Closing his eyes again, he grabbed his coat and made his way out of the flat. Even after all this time he still bought more milk then he needed, even if Sherlock would never be around to experiment on it again.
(I’m sorry! I’m terrible and this was just off the top of my head)