OKAY so I'm writing a fic and I was wondering if any of you could help me with it so far, or have suggestions to where to go next. If you're reviewing PLEASE be as critical as possible, I promise I won't get offended, it's all constructive to me. Thank you!! Here is what I have so far.

John sat in his cream coloured chair, in his cream coloured house, with cream coloured walls. He drank  a cream coloured cup, with his girlfriend, Mary, who wore a cream coloured skirt. He lifted his lips as she approached him from the kitchen. He didn't smile, however,  smiling implied he was happy. He was not. Mary in her sweet soft voice comforted John when the tendrils something dark squeezed him and suffocated him. She smoothed his hair, brought him tea, and lured John out of where he was trapped. She had a way to chase away the looming darkness John carried on his shoulders. She had a way with things like that, the reason why John chose her, he supposes. Sherlock would have never brought John tea, he would have never rubbed his fingers through his fair hair, and would never have kissed him slowly until he was finally able to close his eyes without seeing death. Sherlock would have never done any of these things, but John couldn’t shake the feeling that despite all this, Sherlock would be the only one able to heal him. She had fair and soft skin, she was petite, beautiful, and understanding, and kind, everything John would have wanted in a woman. He should be purposing to her by now, it’s been a little over a year. He should not still be thinking about Sherlock every time he closed his eyes to sleep. He should be happy.  He would have left himself ages ago, and somehow Mary is still here in all her good intentions, and John is not sure whether or not he thinks that is a good thing.
 
"John, I'm off to bed, do get some sleep tonight, you have to go in the clinic tomorrow." She bends over to lightly kiss his cheek, "Sweet dreams"
 
John looked off into the distance. She said that because he never had sweet dreams, and he never got any sleep. It was a little embarrassing considering it has been almost three years since his best friend had abandoned him.  Every day he pretends he isn’t carting around the ghost of Sherlock, and holding the guilt on his shoulders. He pretends every day that he had protected his best friend the best he could, and that he did all he could to keep Sherlock from harm. He pretends all this until he falls asleep at night and his nightmares tell him the truth. They whisper to him that he is guilty, they replay Sherlock’s fall over and over again, John never seems to sleep through the night. He goes back to the clinic every day and home to Mary. Every morning he wakes up to a life he does not want, and each night he falls asleep to silence. There is no violin, or experiments clinking on the table downstairs. Nor gunshots, or hushed whispers from a man sorting out his mind. To find peace, John does not seek silence, he does not find peace here.