These months since he's been gone have been hell. I lost a part of myself when I lost him… and now the sadness follows me like the plague followed rodents. I feel alone and lost. How can he be gone? Sherlock… God… Sherlock come back to me.
The rain hit the roof of my flat with a dull, echoing thud. The air is cold and painful. I laid in my bed, my knees curled up into my chest. "Sherlock! Sherlock, comeback." Tears stained the pillow, my face red and swollen. "Sherlock… Please." This pain was the realest thing I've ever felt. It was as if someone had replaced my heart with a boulder. The familiar pattern no longer beating, instead, a ragged uncomfortable one in its place. "Sherlock Holmes… You're my bestfriend.. please come back." This feeling didn't cease, but only grew stronger as the days dragged on. How could this have happened? How could he have ever thought that leaving me would make anything better. "Look at me, John. Keep your eyes on me." His words echoed in my skull, bouncing around between each section. It danced over my emotions and left behind a chasm that would never be healed. Sherlock Holmes is dead and I never had the chance to tell him I love him. I couldn't kiss him, or hold his hand close to my heart. I can no longer look into those shining blue eyes that made the world melt into nothing but us. He is gone and I can never again hear his beautiful voice.
I heard a knock on the door and frowned.
"John," A female voice called through the thick wood. "John, deere… Open the door." Mrs. Hudson sounded so beaten down. She is only trying to help me. I know that. But, I can't look at her without Sherlock appearing in such graphic detail within my mind. His dark curls bouncing so vivaciously around his perfectly symmetrical face. Those blue eyes that could stare so deeply into your soul you felt no need to be afraid of say anything, it was as if he already knew everything. His voice so mysterious and elegant that the birds would gather to hear him speak.
"I'm alright, …" My voice cracked. My throat was hoarse and dry. My eyes and face rubbed raw from the salty cage that surrounded them. I sniffled and pulled the cover up over my head. I closed my eyes begging for a fragment of diversion from the pain. I needed to sleep.
"John, at least eat something…" her voice was filled with such sadness it caused my tears to start again harder. My head pounded, my chest was crushing me, and my whaling could be heard all over Britain.
"Please… Please leave me be!" I threw the closest thing on my nightstand at the door and bawled hysterically. "I need to be left alone!" I could hear her begin to cry, the clacking of her heels leaving a deeper empty feeling in my heart as she walked away. I don't want to hurt her, I just… I can't do anything right now. There's no point at all. Again I attempt to close my eyes. They feel heavy with sleep and grief. As I begin to drift, my mind fills with the sight of Sherlock. The way his lips and eyes crinkle with his smile. It was one of the most beautiful things I'd ever seen, and I'd never see it again… never again. Tears stream slowly down my cheeks. How can this hurt so bad? How will I ever survive this? HOW!?
After waiting a few moments I sit up. My head is swimming and my face is numb. I attempt to get on my feet, only to stammer and land back on the bed.
"GODDAMN IT!" I sherik. "Cut me some slack will you?!" I throw my head back and yell at the ceiling. "Can you do that for me, Sherlock?" I try again to get to my feet, taking it a bit slower this time. I gain my balance and begin sulking towards the door. As I reach for the handle my foot comes down on something sharp and I let out a shriek of pain. The object made a snapping sound and I bend down to find Sherlock's magnifying glass in pieces. "Oh God… no… Please no." I scurry to pick up the pieces cutting my hand in the process. Tears fill my eyes and it becomes hard to see. I set the pieces i have gathered onto a worn sock and collapse against the wall. I heave, trying to catch a breath. 'I need to clean my hand' I thought to myself. I open my door, pushing back some of the broken magnifying glass. I walk to the small kitchen, still littered with chemistry sets and science projects. Sherlocks unwashed tea cup sat by his pile of cigarette butts on the side of his chair. The flat is a shrine to him.. Nothing moved.. Nothing replaced. It all just sits in the same spot, as it had been that dreadful day. His memory leaving behind a Pompeii like effect.
I waddled to the sink and let the water run over it, the burn letting me know I'm still alive. When all the blood is gone, I pour myself a brandy and sit across from Sherlock's ghost. "You're such a dickhead." I slur my words and drift into a sleep that, I as a doctor, would call a comatose state.