Gone.
Dead and gone.
I didn't exactly get signed off from the army to stand and watch the only friend I've ever had fall to his death. I stood by and did nothing. I mean, it isn't even 'survivors guilt' - that ship has sailed. The fact is, that Sherlock didn't fall to his death, he practically jumped. I didn't even see the signs, and yet I feel like I've got the right to still call him my friend. I guess doing that just makes me even worse. For goodness sake, I watched an old comrade die in a hail of bullets and I still went to his aid. I hated the poor bastard, but it didn't stop me trying; I knew that somewhere, people would love him. People wanted him home, and I tried. The same can't be said for Sherlock, though, can it? It didn't take much for any of them to turn on him. Sally, Greg...the lot of them. But even after saying that, there was still someone who'd have wanted him home. Someone who still, two weeks on, checks the window constantly; checks the door and the phone for any sign of life - any chance that Sherlock hadn't actually died, that he was out there, somewhere, trying. I should clarify, that someone is me. Who else would waste their time thinking about the old sardonic? Who else would actually want him to come back? I don't even feel better knowing that Moriarty's gone, too. I couldn't care less about him. Only he would die with his 'arch enemy', guaranteeing that even in death they couldn't part. What a waste of time. Can't we just rewind back to the poolside? We didn't even know who he was, exactly, back then. Hell, Sherlock thought it was me! God, he could be such a dick when he wanted to be, and that's what pisses me off. There was another side to him. And now people just put it down to 'grief' and 'misunderstanding'. I sure as hell don't imagine the number of times I wake up trembling, following a hideously intense affair with him. It was impossible for me to find someone who had the ability to rid me of the psychosomatic limp that I was so in denial about. And yet he managed it. The guy who had me up searching the Internet to figure out what sort of nutty professor he was. The guy who didn't aggravate me as much as he did other people. The guy who I let die. In front of me. With the weight of the world on his shoulders.
There isn't exactly anything more to do, now, is there?
I'm alone. (Even in his death my selfishness hasn't evaded me).
He's gone.
And I refuse to accept...
He is never coming back.

The Lonely Bachelor, John Watson