For Jennie, my Sherlock buddie and Katie, my inspiration to write. Disclaimer - I do not in any way, shape or form own Sherlock or the characters related. Everything is used for the purpose of entertainment.
The world keeps turning, and I watch through a window. My best friend is gone and the truth about it all, I didn't realise I would miss him this much, the annoying man he was. Since he took that step of the roof my whole world has been taken from beneath my feet and I don't know if I will ever get it back again.
People seem to think that with me being a soldier and a doctor as well, that somehow this would be easy for me, that death would not affect me in anyway. But my days in a war zone are far behind me and Sherlock Holmes was not a soldier.
My head constantly pounds and my eyes are always bloodshot, my hand has not been away from some form of alcoholic substance since the funeral. Everybody treats me like a grieving widow and to be honest I do not even care that they think I'm gay because the only opinion that matters to me anymore is the publics of Sherlock.
For several weeks afterwards I could not leave the flat because reporters would cram outside the door, ready to throw questions at me and the one they wanted me to answer the most: did I know my best friend, Sherlock Holmes, was a fraud.
Mrs Hudson would pester me every day, asking me what she should do with his things and whether I wanted her to take flowers to his grave and I honestly didn't care because his things being around weren't going to bring him back and neither was flowers on his grave.
I lost communication completely with Mycroft, blaming him for all of it, making him well aware that he was the reason his little brother was dead.
One day, I had had enough; I stormed out of the flat into the tidal wave of reporters and yelled at them in disgust. A good man was dead and all they cared about was a news article. A news article and a false one at that. Sherlock Holmes was not a fraud, he was a brilliant man and no one could ever convince me he told me a lie.
I don't know what made me yell, whether it was all of the sentimental cards and sympathetic phone calls or the thoughts that kept floating round my head. Like did he lie and was my whole experience with him false. But the one nagging sensation that wouldn't go away was the tiny bit of hope left inside me, shrinking more and more every day. Hope that I wouldn't be on my own, that my best friend would come through the door of 221b and flash me a quirky smile that meant this was all one of his schemes. But of course it did not happen and the only person who came through the door was Mrs Hudson asking me whether I fancied a cup of tea. The day I yelled at the reporters, that was the day I lost all my hope and why ever since then I have refused to talk to anybody. But three days ago I received a letter through the letter box and all of my hope has been restored.