He's been gone for almost six months.
It's so hard to continue on doing his work, at his flat, doing things he should be doing. The dark curly-haired sociopath has changed me from the weak, remorseful war veteran to Dr. Watson, assistant of Sherlock Holmes, the only consulting detective in the world. The time we worked and lived together at 221b Baker Street changed the both of us, whether he cares to admit it or not.
Mrs. Hudson and I refuse to visit his grave anymore, and neither of us have been able to remove his belongings from the flat.
He is here.
Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft believe me to be insane these days. I once told them that there was no way he, the genius and thrill seeker, would ever choose to end his life.
I could practically imagine what he would say, "John suicide is a type of action especially reserved for the weak or stupid"
I tend to reserve my beliefs of him being alive to myself. Instead, I carry on his work somehow, channeling my brief knowledge of deduction and what Sherlock taught me about people. It's not the same though. He kept cases exciting and worth solving. Now, I work on cases to support myself and retain some bit of honor in his name. Wherever he is, he will surely return and restore his dignity. For the time being, I feel as if it is my responsibility to protect him.
I'm not sure when I got so attached and fixated with Sherlock Holmes. I had spent most of my life with people who were so predictable and carefully arranged their lives to fit them. Sherlock acted impulsively and though his constant sarcastic and narcissistic remarks were ever-present, he found ways to surprise me.
Take the moment we sat in the tea room of the inn near the Baskerville military base for example. Previously, he had denied any sort of emotion except bare disappointment and pride. I looked down and saw his hand shaking. He saw it too. What he did next surprised me even further; that he admitted feeling fear.
In that moment, I caught myself thinking of grabbing his hand, not romantically, but to steady it with my own. After all, he had supported me all that time and I owed him some form of comfort.
However, he admitting to any sort of emotion is what makes me believe he is alive. Isn't suicide- after all- displaying to the world that you did possess emotions? It seemed that he would very unlikely admit that.
Then again, he liked to surprise the world.
I sit down in my chair in our flat at 221b Baker Street and pull out the newspaper as I always do in the mornings, looking for any sort of sign he could be alive.
Nothing, as usual.
I throw the paper onto the coffee table and then a book Sherlock quite likes tumbles to the floor, where it lies open. A white envelope is stuck in the spine.
I reach over and remove the envelope from the book, reading the writing on the outside. I know this handwriting.
On the exterior it is written: My Dearest John -Sherlock