Almost Instinct
For everyone out there, hope you're all okay. And maybe breathing again. This is my way of destroying all hopes and dreams of Leo's agonising demise being a fake like Harry's.
He taught you everything you know.
He taught you pathology, he taught you how to be a scientist, but still believe in the resolute possibility of something more, something beyond the realms of humanity. Beyond the realms of the living and the dead. He taught you how to see the intermediary between life and death, which, right now, is proving oddly comforting. To know that he's not here, and yet, somehow, here.
According to religion, Leo lives on in spirit. A word derived from the Latin spirare, to breathe, essentially, to exist. Leo lives on in the afterlife, a mystical renowned place, where good things happen, and people achieve places beginning with capital letters. Important places like Heaven or Paradise or Eden.
But according to science, he is dead. He must be dead, because logic points to it. He isn't breathing, his heart certainly isn't beating – he shows no signs of having physically remained amongst life. So, because logic explains it, science accepts it. Science accepts death, enforces it as an irreversible, inevitable event of every life. Just as what goes up must come down, what begins life must end life. But despite the irrevocability of death, despite its quantifiable permanence, nobody prepares you for its prematurity. The times when you aren't expecting death. Either your own, or the death of somebody else.
When he lost Theresa and Cassie, nobody prepared him, to cope, to gain perspective, to have time to ask why, before being hurled into a state of grief, a state of stasis. Nobody prepared him for loss. Despite being surrounded by the dead, he still managed to take the living for granted.
And now, you find yourself in the same predicament. But you have nobody, for the grieving process, for the clammy, disheartened hugs, for the fabricated words of comfort, masking a pity that runs so deep, it practically tears you in two. You have nobody at all anymore. For anything.
You've lost two fathers in as many years, you've lost Harry, and you slowly began to lose your identity at one point – settling down with men you didn't love, skiving off work to treat boyfriends to tequila and ready meals. It wasn't you. You didn't behave like this before. You only really noticed the change in you when you saw it all on the news: Science Minister in Critical Care or Politician Ill in Dirty Bomb Attack or Man Charged with Bomb Felony. You watched the news, read the papers, every news article on every news website, just like every other citizen in London, just like every other detached, unaffected commuter. But despite your personal connection, your supposed relationship with this man, you didn't find it within yourself to ring the hospital, to check how he was doing, whether he had gone yet. You waited for it to flood the headlines again, every media outlet screaming Science Minister Dead over and over, like it had the potential to change anything, and even then, you didn't cry, not even one pathetic melancholy tear sliding down one cheek. Nothing.
You'd detached yourself from life by that point. Because although Leo had taught you a lot of things, many valuable skills, a few virtues here and there (all except patience, perhaps), he didn't teach you how to love. That was somebody else you'll always hold dear to you.
But Leo did teach you how to love again. He led by example, through Janet, initially, although, over time, there were other women. But Janet was the marker, the signpost of progress for him. The turning point by which he regained balance, normality.
You didn't ever fall for anyone else. That was beyond conceivable. But you managed to forget Harry just enough to move on with your life, to welcome Jack and Clarissa and smile at them and say hello when they walked through the door and offer them a cursory drink at the pub after a tough case, to act like everything was normal, like you were coping. (You weren't, but that's a different story).
But Leo reminded you of how good it used to be. The days where Harry had somehow managed to suspend himself for almost screwing up a case, or when he was at a conference in the Netherlands, or even, God forbid, when he was in Hungary. Leo reminded you of your jokes, your genuine hugs, your long weekends spent doing nothing except going out to lunch and watching old movies, Leo and Janet occupying one sofa, and you and Harry the other.
Leo helped you to remember the times you didn't miss Harry, and he helped you to amplify those good days into a coping mechanism. Leo taught you to keep love alive, to keep hope in such a foreign concept to a scientist, to embrace the person within you, the romantic, not the realist.
It's almost as if he knew.
It's almost as if he knew you'd need love. As if he knew that you needed something to keep you going, to help you survive. Because, as he always taught, his mantra, what will survive of us is love. Because beyond the physical loss of Leo, beyond the lack of his voice, his hand on your shoulder, his handwriting, you know that the love you have for him will remain.
The love you have for him will always be in the birthday cards that line his bookshelves, in the pictures that hang on his walls, in the teddy bear you bought him for Father's Day, in the wearing of his coat to keep warm, in the sitting at his desk and just sitting there.
And in true Leo fashion, his last words that resonate with you are faultless, undeniable, words with so much depth and clarity, which not even a staunch cynic like you, can object.
What will survive of us, is love.
Even in death, Leo is right.
Even in death, Leo has the last say.
Even in death, Leo is alive, living on, here.
No, this isn't coherent, logical, or even making sense. And do anticipate a sequel, because I'm sure as hell not done with the angst yet. I apologise profusely for the complete and utter mess of this. I just needed it out, because frankly, the BBC is killing me. (As one will note from my frequented outbursts on twitter and tumblr tonight).
I hope I haven't made you feel any worse (although, cue sad violin music here, I don't think that's remotely possible).
Ems x