So, this is another one. It's also oddly written, but I tried to fix it, it just wouldn't cooperate. I hope you like it! :)
Life is measured in moments and memories. In tears and pain, in laughter and kisses shared in the rain. In sprints down alleys and dead bodies. It's measured in case files and experiments and adventures. Life is measured by so much more than time, but in the end, time is the deciding factor. Time is what says 'yes, you can be happy here' or 'no, you don't get to have this.' Time is hateful and dark. It sucks away the days, hours, minutes, seconds you have, taking them all away until you're left in a crumpled heap in the middle of a graveyard begging for just a few more. Just long enough to say the things you never got around to. Like the 'I love you' you meant to say when he handed you your tea, or the 'stay in here tonight' when he came to borrow your gun for an experiment. You beg for the chance to hold him close, to kiss him until he shut that arrogant, annoying, brilliant mouth of his. You beg for one more adventure, one more daring escape from the jaws of death. You beg for just one more day in your flat, bickering over the body parts in the fridge. You beg for just one more. You beg until you don't remember what you're asking for and then you walk home.
You walk slowly, looking at the ground. You don't want to see the city, because it won't look the same. You know if you raise your eyes you'll see people and cars and boring, ordinary things. You won't see the subtle traces of the darker side of London. You won't see the scars from crimes past. You won't see the, oh, so terrifying truth, that everyone is capable of anything given the right motivation. Or maybe you will. Maybe you'll see that man on the corner talking on the phone and you'll know, you won't know how you know, but you will know that he's cheating on his wife. You'll see that young girl and know she's not going back home. It might be the bruises, barely visible beneath her long sleeves, or maybe it's the backpack she's carrying, even though there's no reason for her to be coming home from school this late. Perhaps you see the man sipping coffee and typing away on his computer and know that he's a recovering alcoholic who just lost his wife and half his company in a nasty divorce. Maybe you would, but you won't. Because you won't look up.
You'll arrive home to Baker Street and you'll climb the stairs. You'll turn the knob and enter the flat. It won't feel the same, it won't feel right. It's empty, even though nothing's really changed. The kitchen's still littered with the remnants of an experiment gone awry. The fridge still has two jars of suspicious liquid and three hands in it. The couch is still covered in books, magazines, case files, and papers with varying amounts of scribbles on them. Everything is the same, and if you could just forget for one moment, pretend like everything that had happened this week was just a dream, then you could pretend that he was just at St. Bart's working on some crazy experiment and would be home later and you'd blog and he'd be insufferable and everything would be back to normal and everything would be alright. But he wasn't at St. Bart's and he wasn't coming back and nothing was alright or normal or anything because he was never coming back and now you're alone again and this isn't fair and no, no, no it was not happening. But it was, it is. You are alone now.
So you'll close your eyes tightly, so tight you see stars, and breathe in, out, in, out. You fight back tears because they won't bring him back and it would be stupid to cry and he would tell you so if he was here. So, you won't cry, you'll suck it up because you're a goddam soldier for fuck's sake. You won't break down, you'll move on. You have to move on.
So you'll slowly pick the books up one by one, putting them back on the book shelf. They're not in the correct order, but you don't really think there was an order to begin with. You pause when you pick up one of your old medical textbooks, why would he have needed that? You shake your head and throw it to the side, ignoring the loose papers that fell out. You'd probably have to go through all of your textbooks to get rid of all his notes. But you won't. You'll keep them inside the pages, exactly where he had them and you'll never open them again. You silently pick up the scattered notebooks and magazines, slipping the loose sheets in between them. They also go on the bookshelf.
You aren't sure what to do when you're done. When all the chemicals have been poured out and the books shelved and the fridge cleared of anything not food. You glance at the pile of textbooks by your chair, you could go through those. You won't, though, because you know what you'll find. You'll find notes and scribbles and corrections. You'll find him. He's left his mark on everything, the apartment, your books, the city, your heart. Marks that won't go away, because you don't have the heart to erase them. You can't stand the thought of him being gone entirely. So you'll walk through the apartment, packing your things away, just because you can't erase the marks doesn't mean you don't want to move on, and you can't do that in Baker Street.
You're done, with nothing but his room left to clean out and pack up. You did promise Mrs. Hudson you would. You can't remember why you did that. Why would you want to go anywhere near his things? But you did and you do.
You walk in and breathe deep, which was probably a huge mistake. It's like a whirlwind of everything him. Mint and ash mixing with citrus and chemicals, old books and laundry detergent with an underlying hint of gunpowder. It was far too much and you slide down the wall. You can't, you can't pack his stuff up, you can't suck it up and move on. You can't leave Baker Street and you can't stay here and you just can't do this.
You have to, though. Because it's stupid to think otherwise. It's stupid to curl up and cry, but that doesn't stop you from doing it. It's stupid to cry out his name and pray and beg and plead and shout but you still do it. It's stupid to break down but you do. Because you are not a machine, you are human, and even if something is stupid and irrational you're going to do it because you need to.
You need to because you lost something that mattered, something you loved. You need to because you need one more chance, one more hour, to say all the things you stopped yourself from saying. You need to because you should have held his hand a moment longer. Because you should have kissed him when he was being insufferable, and when he was being brilliant, and when he was sad, when he was bored, when he was happy, when you were on a case, when he was here. You should have kissed him and told him you loved him and never wanted to lose him and you didn't know what you'd do without him. You should have held him close and let him know that you were there for him, like nobody else ever was. You should have let him cry and kissed the tears away. You should have done everything you never did. You should have done it a year ago, a month ago, a week ago. You should have done it when you had time.
So you'll break down and cry and mourn and fight against the truth. You'll do it for all the things you should have done. You'll do it for all the things you did do. You'll do it because you are Dr. John Watson, the heart. And you have just lost your best friend. You just lost the one person who meant the most to you, because time is a cruel beast that enjoys ripping away the things that make us happiest. Because time has no concept of love. And you want just a little more time. One more minute, one more day. No, you don't want it, you need it.
You need one more day to let him know he was loved. That he wasn't a freak. That he was brilliant and he was human. That he was a hero. He was your hero because he saved you.
So you, Dr. John Watson have just lost your best friend, Sherlock Holmes, because time has run out. And dammit if you don't want one more day.
Thanks for reading! Please review, it makes me happy! :)