Hi, this is my first attempt at writing FanFiction, so I'm not sure how this will go!
I thought since we're finally getting close to Season 3 I would have a go with it, so I hope you like it!
One Final Word
I am no stranger to death. I couldn't be, could I, having served in Afghanistan. I saw a lot of deaths; in fact I caused some of them. I lost a lot of people I knew over the years, a lot of friends, but even after all that, only one still haunts me. Only one has made a long lasting impact on my life.
When I first met Sherlock Holmes, I couldn't decide whether I liked him, or hated him. His cocky, arrogant nature was both annoying and entertaining – well, entertaining when not directed at me, of course. But after that first case, I found a lot less of his biting comments came my way, and any that did ceased to rile me quite as much. Not completely, mind, the git still got on my nerves and went too far sometimes – but no, I promised myself I wouldn't do this. It doesn't do to speak ill of the dead.
Not that you would have cared, would you? People had too many emotions, they got in the way. Sentiment: what's the point? It's funny, I always thought you were missing out on the best parts of life – the empathy with people, that deeper understanding that can't come with just 'data'. But how I envy that ability now. I wish, really wish, that I could just close off my emotions, not just put on the cold, determined mask but allow it to become me, so that I don't have to feel this aching, gut-wrenching sense of loss...
Why did you do it? I need to know, but since you're the only one who understood what goes on in your mind, and the only one who could recreate a scene in such complete detail, will I ever find out? I can make a guess though – and don't sniff, it's an educated guess. Moriarty. It's always been about him. What did he have over you that made you... well, jump? I've tried to understand, to observe, but I just never thought you would be one to be so emotional. Feelings just get in the way, you said. Well, they have now. Got in the way, and completely blocked the path. Separated us. And I'm so lost Sherlock...
I'm rambling, I know. I just need to get all this out – my therapist says so. Yes, I've gone back there; she may not have picked up the whole not-PTSD thing, but she listens, and it's harder to tell if she doesn't believe me when I say you were who you said you were. Besides, in this case I think she's right. Having it in writing might make it clearer in my head too. I think I'm experiencing a little of what you did – were there voices in your head explaining everything? Or was it just yours: the only one smart enough to keep up with you?
I tried going about life as normal – our normal, of course, so I'm not sure that's quite the right term – but that was never going to last. I'm kept awake at night by the silence, when I expect to hear your violin. Whenever there's a knock at the door, I'm reminded of how and why the doorbell doesn't work. I can't bear to look at the wall and see the bullet holes, but nor can I bring myself to change the wallpaper. And how can your chair be so much warmer and colder than mine at the same time? When I sit in my chair, the empty seat of yours is always visible; when I sit in yours, I can still hear you complaining and turfing me out.
I've contemplated moving, getting away from 221B, and trying to start afresh. There's too many memories in this flat, too many links to you and the life we led. But when it really came to it, when I started to look elsewhere, I realised I can't do that. Yes, it hurts when I sit there alone, expecting you to sweep in or yell up the stairs, but it would hurt not to have that possibility. People tell me to move on, but the waiting keeps me hoping that, maybe, it was all a dream and you will come in, in a minute. Or two. An hour, even. Sometime. Moving would end that – and I suppose the memories are too precious to lose, even if they do hold me in this state of depression. Perhaps it's because, as long as I stay here, you know exactly how to find me.
There's just one more thing I feel I owe you. No, that's not right, I owe you much more than that. But there's one more thing I can give you. A confession. You know, all the time we were on the run from the police, chasing Moriarty's clues around the town, I believed in you. When you said even I had been taken in by his lies, and I retorted that no-one could fake being so insufferable, that was the truth too. But, after all we've been through, after everything you've shown me explained to me, despite my previously unshakeable trust in you, right at the end, I felt it. Doubt. I appreciate now what you meant, back in Grimpen village, when you doubted yourself. But this is worse, somehow. I didn't doubt myself, not exactly – I doubted my best friend. And if I can't trust you, what can I trust? So... I'm sorry. Sorry that I couldn't help you, sorry to have lost faith. I believe in you now. Please, Sherlock. Do the impossible. Find a way back.
No-one could be that clever.
You could.