The Blog of Doctor John H. Watson:

Day 30:

He's been gone for a month. It still hurts. The nightmares came back. They've changed, though. Now it's him. What he said. What I said. The last thing I said to him face to face.

I called him a machine.

I see him on the roof and...

I can't do this! I can't keep living my life like this. He told me to tell everyone that he's a fake. I can't do that. It would be a lie. I'm going to do everything- every last thing- to prove that he was telling the truth.

I still don't believe that he ever told me a lie.

I miss him more everyday. They said it gets better. They said that I wouldn't miss him after a while. That the sharp pain in my chest will go to a dull ache. It's all a lie. A huge fucking lie told to help you forget. It doesn't get better. It gets worse. I won't stop missing him. I couldn't if I tried. You try losing your best friend, your only friend in the whole world. The pain isn't dulling. It hurts every fucking minute of every fucking day. It's a knife stabbed in my chest, twisting every time I see something of his. A spare finger in the oven. The smile on the wall. His violin. Every little thing.

And I hate him for it.

I hate that he left me alone. I hate that he said goodbye over a phone call, not to my face. I hate that he didn't let me help him. I hate how stubborn he is- was. I hate that I couldn't do anything.

And I hate that he made me love him.

It's true. I, John Watson, am in love with... him. Fuck, I still can't write his name. Hell, I can't even think it, let alone say it. I fell in love with my best friend, and now there's nothing I can do about it. I have to live the rest of my life with a piece of me missing. Hollow. A shell.

I wish I had been the one who jumped.

He got the easy bit. Going off into oblivion or heaven or hell or wherever he is. I got stuck here. Alone. The only person I would go to in a time like this is the reason behind it. Mycroft doesn't even care. His little fucking brother, and he acts like nothing even happened.

I want to go home. But I can't.

My home is gone. Buried. Six feet under. In a cemetery. God, it hurts just to think about. It wasn't just a man that jumped that day. It was my home. My home jumped on that terrible day one month ago. It feels like much longer. I feel like he's been gone for years. Everyday passes by slowly, like a sloth. I sit there and drink tea that doesn't even taste the same anymore. My life went from bright and Technicolor, to dull. Just shades of gray.

Goodbye John.

That's all I hear at night. His voice echoing in my ears as he jumped.

Falling.

Flying.

I want to follow him.

Hello Sherlock.