Aaaaangst. My specialty.
You're at a grave.
You're at a grave of a beautiful man and your throat is choked; you wish that you could say what you want to but the sun and the flowers, they all mock you. All of them. The day is much too pretty for a world without Sherlock Holmes.
You're at this grave, and you're stumbling and fumbling around for words. Short fragments burst out of you, but you are not saying everything because there's just too much that needs to be said. You see him, you see him falling, and it is both a second and an eternity before the sickening thud as the beautiful man becomes a beautiful corpse. You have played this moment in your mind millions of times since you first saw it. Everyone tells you it's bad for you, and you know they're right, but your mind is its own, now, and it will torture you.
You're at this grave. You want to say the things you should have said while he was alive, warm, obnoxious. But you don't, because you can't, and you're touching the cold stone embossed with his name instead of him.
The birds sing, and you are at this grave, and you are crying. You turn away and you walk; you wish you could run, but that would be a disrespect to this beautiful corpse's beautifully smeared memory, so you walk, and you wipe at an eye with a stiff finger.
XXX
You're watching a beautiful man at your beautiful grave, and he won't tell your grave he loves you.
You know you can't go to him, but you want to, as you watch him shake and stutter. You want to run to him with your coat flying out behind you and watch his eyes as he realizes that the man he is mourning is only a few feet away.
But you can't, so you watch him, and he's not saying what he should be saying, what you took the risk of coming here to see. He's not saying it, and you want to run out and slap him because you know he should and he wants to but he won't. And then you feel like it's you that have done something wrong.
Then you realize that you have.
You've done so many things wrong, and you wish that you could go and apologize. But you can't.
So you turn away from your beautiful man because you cannot watch him anymore and he will not tell your grave he loves you, and you hurt. You hurt and you turn away and he leaves, and then you go home (but not really home, because 221B Baker Street lies abandoned), you go home alone with your wrongs.