A proper Goodbye
Sometimes I look at your picture and all I see are the tears I saw you cry. Only once. You stood there and said my name and than you left forever. I blink. I breathe. But inside I am as shattered as your body. I have always wanted to tell you how much I love you. I have always craved to be more daring, more open-minded, more cold-hearted. If I had been I would not have been so afraid, afraid of the emotions slowly killing me, afraid of what people might think, afraid that you might reject me and destroy this vulnerable little organ called heart. Loosing you. Loving you. It is all the same now. I close my eyes and see you, I leave them open and still feel the touch of your hand. Once you have held it, tight, you laughed with me, about me stumbling like always behind you, chasing like a mad man through the street, breathless, breathless… so alive.
Sometimes I still speak to you. It makes no difference that you are no longer there since you never really listened to what I said in the first place. Not when it really mattered. I told you not to go alone, I told you in so many ways I would walk with you till the end. The end. This part you did alone. Have you been frightened? I was. I tell you about that every evening while staring at your violin, the instrument resting on your seat like you once did. I can't put it away. They all say I should get rid of the instrument, the skull, your shirts... They say I start losing my mind since I told them I saw you walking down the road only days ago. I was so sure. It doesn't matter now, does it? That I am loosing my mind? It's not as if I ever had a great one. Not like you. No brilliance. I am nothing like you. Who would care since I am so ordinary? I would not. If loosing my mind means seeing you again: I would willingly shred my mind to pieces. I would offer heart, mind, soul, everything if there is a god or a demon who could bring you back.
Sometimes I still cry over your dead body. Not that I can actually see it, buried deep down below the earth. I so long to touch you I put my hand on the wet grass, digging my fingers in the cold earth. Cold. Dear god, you must be freezing down there. I am shivering when I think how alone you must be. No, now you would laugh about me, tell me about the worms and bacteria gnawing at your body. No, I can't picture you like that. Your beautiful face, the long dark lashes hiding your storm cloud eyes – I should remember you like this. Not the broken body, the blood on your face I see in my every nightmare. Please let me remember you like you were on good days: laughing, running even screaming, shouting and insulting would be okay. But you could not even leave me that memory, could you? Now your death is hunting me. I see you fly, fall, fall, fall… I close my eyes but still I hear you crashing to the ground. Your dead face, these lifeless eyes. I am so angry with you. Sometimes, always, never. Dear god, I miss you so much. When I bring my hands to my face to wipe away the tears they are smeared with earth. Like a trace of you, resting down below. So alone, like me. Please, please come back. I am childish to beg like that. But I can't keep up otherwise. Only the thought that you could hear me somehow keeps me alive. The gun. Why haven't I got rid of the gun?
I sometimes even do enjoy life. I can't tell you why. Oh love, I can't. I laugh and for a few minutes my heart feels light und joyful, I want to tell you about it and then I remember. There is no one I could tell. No one will laugh about the same things, giggle where other look aghast: at a crime scene. That is so you, so me, so us. I remember and the universe collapses around me, I am buried under shards of the moon, stars raining down on me, every one a part of your soul. And then suddenly it is gone, like you, like everything I have ever enjoyed in my life. And what stays is eternal darkness.
I know I should not call this love, the doctor in me keeps telling me so. Depression, he whispers. Get help, he says. But I tend to ignore him. I have always scolded you when you became like this, crashing down after a case, bored, depressed. Now look at me, I am worse than you have ever been. John, you would say. Only that. John. But in that one word you would tell me more than all the other people with their hundreds of syllables, with their endless monologues.
I can't go on like this. I thought about it. Every method. No toxin. It would remind me too much of the story with the mad cabbie. No drugs. How often have I quarrelled with you about your habit to secretly store cocaine in the flat? I found it, you know, under the creaking floorboard. No fall. Never falling, jumping. I can't stand the heights any longer, even second story buildings freak me out nowadays… freak… what a wrong word to use… I should have gotten rid of that damn gun. Too easy. Pull the trigger and you are gone. No pain… hopefully my hands will not shake. I am sure you have heard the tales of those people who tried to shoot themselves and missed, only scratched themselves if they were lucky. Those with less luck spend their life as cripples. I am a cripple already, my leg does no longer support my body weight, so no risk there. I am sorry for Mrs Hudson, my sister, even for your damn brother. He really tries to care… nagging me to move an, to forget, to live, to… sometimes I think not only brilliance runs in your family but stupidity as well.
It is time, my love. Time to say goodbye to this world and hello to yours. Will there be something like an afterlife? That can't be too bad, can it? Even if I land in hell for shooting myself I will still be meeting you. Two damned man burning for eternity. Not bad since we are burning together. I haven't touched my gun since the day I buried you, since the day I nearly shot my self and shot the wall instead. Exactly at the same spot you always used to. I tried. Weeks and month I have tried not to touch this damn thing. But now I hear its call. I walk into my bedroom, the box is where I left it at the bottom of my trunk. I smile as I sit down on the bed and place the box on my legs. Sherlock. Sherlock. For the first time in month I dare to think your name. I whisper it into the empty room. "Sherlock." I can taste my salty tears on my lips. It should have been yours. One kiss. Only one to say a proper goodbye. "Goodbye life", I say, "hello Sherlock." But when I finally open the lid, my breath stops. The gun is gone. All I find is an already yellowed piece of paper. A word and two letters in his familiar handwriting: "Don't S.H."
The End!