It's been two months. Sherlock hasn't left the flat. He sits on the sofa or at his desk just…staring.
He'll pick up his violin but he won't play, he'll just hold it.
He lights a fire in the fireplace nearly every night and just sits.
Lestrade doesn't even come to him with cases anymore. They've been piling up, but Sherlock won't leave the flat. He won't leave…he won't move…
I can't bear watching him waste away like this. The greatest mind in the world…
At night, he tosses and turns in his sleep. That is, when he actually sleeps.
I've watched men die. I remember not being able to sleep at night. This is different.
He's got this blank stare.
He…He doesn't know how to function. No one knows how to respond to him. Everyone stares sadly, sympathetically, when they think he can't see them. I know he sees them, but he doesn't understand why they feel this way.
I assume he feels that he is the only one who should be hurting, that he's the only one who should be affected.
One late Saturday night, he ventured out, just for fresh air—at the insistent request of Mrs. Hudson. He was wandering back alleys, pausing in the shadows. He stopped behind a dark building, leaned against the back wall and sank to the ground.
No one was around to notice him. He was sobbing. The Great Sherlock Holmes was sobbing.
I wanted so badly to comfort him, but how does one console the great Sherlock Holmes?
I wish I could help him. I wish he didn't feel so alone. But there's nothing I can do about it.
I feel so helpless. I can't do a thing.
Sherlock eventually pulled himself together, composed himself, and set off back to the flat.
He paused at the front door, running a gloved hand over the numbers '221', his hand shaking. Something had changed within him in that alley, in that moment of private vulnerability. He wasn't Sherlock anymore… He was broken.
When he got into the flat, he headed straight for his bedroom and collapsed onto his bed, not bothering with the mundane task of changing his clothes or removing his shoes.
The look in his eye was frightening. He lay there with the most heartbroken look on his face. It was as if nothing in the world made sense to him anymore.
"John…John, I need you," he whispers.
"I'm here, Sherlock. I'm always here." But he doesn't hear me.
"John…" he repeats, his voice wavering.
I can't do anything for him. I am the thing he misses, the thing that broke him. I can only observe, from the other side of the veil. I am no longer with him.
I, John Hamish Watson, am dead.
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