Every day, people put masks on. You can never tell what a person is thinking or feeling when you pass them on the street. Of course he could. He could do anything. I wonder… if he were to miraculously pass me on the street, would he be able to see my pain? Would he notice how every time I found myself swallowed in a crowd, I would scan for his tall and lanky build? his beautiful eyes? Would he see how ever time, when I couldn't find him, my heart would sink into my stomach?
Of course he would. He was Sherlock Holmes.
I hated him for leaving me. How could he leave me? And why…? He never did tell me.
What I hated the most was that he never said "I love you". I know he did, because there were times that I could read it in his eyes, but never once were those words spoken. He just assumed I already knew.
Somehow, it might be better this way. This… loving him from a distance. But I don't know that I believe it. What I do believe, though, is Sherlock. None of it was a lie; the only lie he ever told me was when he said the papers were true. I believe that, and I believe he is still alive, somewhere. Maybe he's waiting for me to find him. Maybe he's astonished it's taking me so long.
But I am no Sherlock Holmes.