Hello everyone. My name is Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes. And I died a week ago. Let me tell you my story.

All my life I've been in my mid-thirties. It's just that only now I've grown to look so. My brain, my mind, my behavior always indicated I was different. I never felt bad about that. I felt bad about the difference being rejected, ignored, feared.

Primary school, middle, school, university… All that flew by in flashes. Sherlock Holmes, a brilliant child, with the reputation of his name light years ahead of him. Every teacher, from Barrow Hill Junior School to Eton and Cambridge had hopes concerning the black-haired thin boy who had no idea how to play football, satisfying himself with quantum physics instead. And he never let them down. All those institutions have had a glimpse of what they might expect, having accepted most of the sons of Holmes' as their students, with the last one being Mycroft – an honest, hard-working, serious young man, who knew his duties. Then, seven years after Mycroft left Cambridge, graduating in history. He was a good, active student, leader of the debates club, an honest man, decent Englishman.

His younger brother was different. I am his younger brother. I went to the university to satisfy basic needs. The burning hunger for knowledge was inexplicable and yet, unbearable. Physics came first; from nuclei to galaxies, I devoured theories, formulae, numbers, speculations. I introduced a couple tiny corrections to the relativity theory in my third year, they're said to be currently discussed in Genève. But, that took just a second. I thought of medicine, but it never really sunk in. Three years, that was it; then, an impulse led me to biochemistry, genetics and finally, a one-year study in evolution. I left Cambridge at 27. It seemed like they didn't want to let me out. Or, at least the professors. All my fellow students, in turn, I'm sure had a chain of parties when I finally left. A pity that was. I cannot hide I was hoping they'd notice me, acclaim me in some way. At first, alone was terrible. But then, soon, as I grew up and saw sadness, rejection, break-ups, killings, relatives' deaths, gossips, underestimation, alone didn't seem so bad anymore; compared, cigarettes seemed a miracle-worker. Alone rarely evoked suicide. Love did.

That was what I thought. And then, when I was 29, I decided I needed my own place. Then again, I had no job. Every few weeks I'd drop an envelope with cases' solutions at the nearest police office to my Mum's house (when I came and offered my service, explaining a car accident on the spot, they threw me out; the envelopes always disappeared; the papers always announced the police's successes). Back then, I lived at hers, after my Dad died. Mycroft never came, I only caught a glimpse of him at the funeral. Judging by his 'caring-is-not-an-advantage' approach, I always wondered, why he kept claiming Mum loved him more. I never wondered, why that was true. Mycroft had a diploma from Cambridge she could hang up her wall. I must have lost mine, the physics one. I only got that one. I remember spilling coffee on it. Mycroft didn't smoke. Mycroft was well known and widely respected, she could talk about him to the neighbors. Mycroft never brought road kill to his room for vivisections. Mycroft talked to people. Mycroft never wanted to help them. I did. I do.

That's why I moved to London. My thirtieth birthday I spent on a bench, sleeping, with my coat as what turned the bench into a temporary, bloody uncomfortable bed. A police car siren woke me up. It was dawn, a grayish man in his late thirties getting out. Gave up smoking. I knew the symptoms at once, I shared them. Married, for a couple years, presumably seven; not happy anymore, but too 'traditional', too tired to divorce. Devoted to his job, anyway. Lived outside the city, jogging every morning, drank too much coffee. Now, he darted into the hospital. I couldn't resist following. turned out he was inquiring in what circumstances some well known Labour Party politician died. The pathologist, a short plump man, frantically ensured him it was a stroke. I sneaked through the ajar door. And simply corrected his mistake. I was too far away to be sure, but anyway, I was positive. Murder. But not political grounds.

That man was famous. He held a high position in the government, often appeared on TV. Aged forty one. As far as I could tell, handsome. What meant more to the woman who killed him, rich. He was not married, had a lover. Younger than him, which explained the hair gel he used, fashionable expensive clothes he wore – typical for a 20-year-old gay (or posing to be gay, I corrected, minding my classic, well-kept, simple image), what most women like nowadays. He desired her, wanted her love. She loved his money. But, one day, took a step too far, as it seemed.

I said all that aloud. I never could control that. They heard me. And then, DI Lestrade gave me a birthday present, the eleventh I got in my whole life. He didn't throw me outside. He kindly asked me to repeat, but louder. I did. His jaw dropped. He promised to check on that. And he astonished me to keep his word. For the first time since I got myself a mobile phone, I was shocked to hear a terribly dull ringtone when he called me and asked to explain, how the hell I knew the man was killed.

Interest was very pleasant to get. Attention too. And addictive. A lot, more than tobacco. I don't think I was ever happier in my life than on the day when I was offered a job. At the St. Bartholomew's Hospital, where Lestrade often came. I helped him, deduced the hardest cases. I needed no pay. the fact that he asked for my help was more than enough. It was proof – Sherlock Holmes is human. He feels. He feels appreciated. He feels admired. He feels an authority. He feels accepted. He feels happy. But, still, he feels a bit alone.

I had a job, a paid job. I chose with all awareness to ignore the thirty thousand pounds inheritance after my father. I still was unable to afford a flat. Dear God, try renting a place in central London, smoking, eating and wearing good clothes. At the same time. Cigarettes were abandoned. So was food, for some time. I took nightshifts. All I could. Mike Stamford liked to think it was because I was an ambitious young man who loved working as a pathologist's assistant. I liked to have a warm place to sleep. I liked to know he'll be back in the morning. I liked to know Lestrade will need me again. I cried once, when he talked to me for three hours, because of me he was late for work. I never thought I was able to cry happy tears.

In the mornings, he sometimes came before Mike. And sometimes, he consulted me even without coming. There was a case he needed to take care of, called me at 6 AM. A brutal death, a woman stabbed, a seemingly innocent man with a death sentence. A thousand miles away, Florida. The man accused was English. All tried to defend him, with a mere excuse of lack of blood on the convict's clothing. That was the moment I was convinced – Americans are idiots. The victim was stabbed in her abdomen – no blood splash possible, no arteries cut. So, no blood visible on the chest, neck, trousers etc. plus, Florida, summer – an Englishman could get used to the climate after at least three to five months. Obviously, Mr. Hudson wore short sleeves, if any at all. Not having ever met, seen or even heard him, I had no more arguments. Nonetheless, the case was solved, the man justly punished. When I later met his widow, she shocked me to show gratitude, peace, even relief… Mrs. Emmeline Hudson owned a small tenement house in Baker Street 221. One of the apartments was vacant. And she was alone. Retired. Infatuated with an elderly Mr. Simpson she regularly met when gardening. Who was, unfortunately, married, as I presumed. I was correct. As always.

I thought life is the process of the human mind and body development and gradual deterioration. With no purpose, no destination. I was never afraid of dying, simply viewing death as the moment when I will be no more of any use. Donate all the organs that can be taken and rot in peace. And then all that came along. All those thing to lose, that make one realize – all lives end. Mine too.

My name is Sherlock Holmes. I am thirty three years old. John sometimes says I'm five. Thanks to John, I've been alive for three and a half.

John. Doctor John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. AKA the driving force of the life of Sherlock Holmes.

I met him one dull day, Mike introduced him to me. I was extremely bored back then. Only such kind of boredom could induce the thought of sharing a flat with another man to my mind. And then the memories roll on like a film.

The lab of St. Bart's, the man intrigues me, I deduce him. I am correct. He is amazed. I am, too.

Lauriston Gardens, Angelo's. John talks to me. Treats me like an ordinary person, just like him. We chase a taxi. I'm nervous if he can make it. He admires my deduction. I am embarrassed, for the first time. I manage to hide it. I go with the 'genius' cabbie. I play the game. I'm lost, from the very start. I pray help comes. It does.

John becomes my doctor, I get a shock blanket. Mycroft meets us. I see he's glad I am not alone. He knew what I just learned – alone never protects. We go home. On a bus.

Home. John snores a bit, I hear a shade of sound from his bedroom. Feels peculiar. But good.

Fights over body parts in the fridge.

John buying milk, making coffee.

John being always late for work, nights spent out on cases.

John giggling in crime scenes with me.

John trying to deduce. I feel pride.

John reminding me about sleep and eat.

John saving my life.

John really talking to me.

John with me. Always, everywhere I need him to be.

John losing at Cluedo.

John handling Mycroft.

John screaming at me when I'm mute for more than two days.

John annoyed by my wearing bedsheets.

John reading newspapers in the armchair, with the Union Jack pillow.

John as a soldier, shooting the pink cabbie. Saved me. From death, from alone.

John at the pool, bombs wrapped to his chest. Don't lose John.

John with Irene Adler, prejudiced and still talking her into return. John thinks I care. I did. I feel gratitude.

John at Baskerville, getting to me. I test him, he tests me too. He passes. I think I fail. He forgives.

John is a friend.

A friend.

'Your friends die if you don't.'

John is a friend.

'Goodbye, John.'

And so I died. Dead man walking, I every day stand nearby and look at my grave. Empty. I wait until John comes. He does every day. A week, a month, a year. He comes every day. For a minute, for an hour, sometimes he just passes by to see if it's still there. I hide. John approaches the grave. Close. He touches it, strokes it.

'Sherlock… I keep asking you to come back. It's been fourteen months, fourteen bloody months! And you didn't even tell me to hold on. To wait. But I still do. I believe in you, Holmes. I always will. Although sometimes, I don't know why.'

I smile, can't help it. It's time. I've had enough. Being dead feels terribly dull. It's high time I come back to life. We've all had enough. I slowly approach him, halt by his side.

'Because you're an idiot.' I still restrain from looking at his shocked face. 'All the best people are.'