(Title of this series comes from the quote, "The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living" by Marcus Tullius Cicero.)
John Watson, after the fall of Sherlock Holmes.
I came to accept it some time ago: they will never understand. No-one will ever even begin to fathom what it was like, what it felt like... feels like. What it meant. What it did, to me, to my life. Friendship seems inadequate. Love carries the wrong connotations. It was what it was. No-one will ever understand because I will never be able to convey it. The English language, for all its complexities, does not have a word for how I feel about Sherlock Holmes. He was a life-changer, a force of nature, a brilliant, beautiful mind. He was sharp and witty and elegant. He was ignorant and arrogant and selfish. Obnoxious. Brave. Chaotic. Kind. Fierce. Exotic. Strong. He was the best and the worst that humanity could offer, rolled into the perfect human being. A sociopath with a heart. An untrusting man who chose to trust a broken, penniless veteran and let him into his life; into his mind. A debt I will never be able to repay.
The hurt – despair – I feel for the loss of such a unique creature, so Harry thinks, can be placated by a gentle hand on my shoulder.
I want to slap her hand away and grab her by her arms, shake her until the look in my eyes and the harsh screaming of my voice gives her but a glimpse of what I feel and she is able to comprehend how redundant her gesture is.
But I don't. I never will.
Because they will never understand.