This was one of the rare days that Sherlock was happy. He was in the kitchen, not making weird concoctions out of human eyes, but he was making coffee. Coffee! I was sitting in one of the armchairs in front of the fire, my elbows leaning on the back of the chair facing the laughing Sherlock busying himself with mugs and milk.
'He seems like a different person.' I can't help but think.
I cherish every second he had with this, human and happy Sherlock. I know tomorrow he would be back to his usual cold and calculated self. Seeing Sherlock like this made me elatedly ecstatically happy, but it also made me so fucking sad. Sad to know that Sherlock was like this maybe once or twice a year, and that the rest of the year he was, well, an annoying dick. I also feel anger. I often wonder if Sherlock did the whole being an annoying smart ass on purpose, and that this was the real Sherlock, just hidden behind layers of something. But I don't dwell on it because I know I would go mad trying to understand Sherlock's brain.
He's sitting opposite me gushing on and on about his newest of 246 types of tobacco ash and I don't have the heart to stop him. He looks so peaceful and happy, and I'm all too happy to sit there and listen to him talk.
It's been a week since Sherlock's happy day. And three days since, since he jumped off St. Bart's. I feel so hollow, and lost. I'll never get to kiss those lips again; I'll never be able to touch that silky smooth skin. God I hate him for doing this to me. I can feel him next to me, kissing my hair, and I can see him in his chair playing his violin. My bed feels empty and cold; well I guess so does my heart. How could he do this, he knew we were in love and happy. Why did he have to break us apart?
Did I not matter enough to you?
Was playing games with Moriarty more fun for you?
Are you really dead?
If you aren't just for the love of god come back to me. I love you.
John.