The lab is too quiet now. Not that it was ever particularly loud. It's not that other people aren't here; they are and the entire hospital is buzzing with life. Much as they like to think they do, the Holmes brothers don't run the world. But they should. He should. Because without Sherlock Holmes the world would be dull and silent.
Sherlock used to brighten up my day; his odd deductions were what I looked forward to. What I would give to hear him do one now, even if he was as insulting as he used to be? Sherlock was always quiet when he used the equipment – he said he needed quiet to "deduce". Not many people hear that. I always felt special, as if, somehow, each and every one of his deductions were for me and me alone. He hurt me so much sometimes. I know he didn't mean to, that he didn't realise, but it's awful when the one person you really love doesn't know you exist. Sherlock didn't even notice me when John was in the room, except to make some hurtful deduction. But I didn't stop loving him. It's not even just his intelligence – it's everything. His hair, falling just perfect; his stupidly attractive high cheekbones; his incredibly thin body - stick thin, I suppose it would be called. He broke my heart every day but I never stopped loving him. Ad I never wanted him to leave me.
No one really talks to me now. Not at work, anyway. Greg stops by, occasionally. I know it's just for work, really, but I like to imagine that it's not. Greg's always been sweet to me; he spoke to me whenever Sherlock disappeared into "Sherlock-land"; even brought me coffee, instead of me having to get it for him. If I think about it, he's probably the only friend I have. If I'm being honest, he was always the only friend I had. Sherlock and John weren't my friends. Sherlock's only friend was John, maybe Mrs Hudson, but definitely John. John only spoke to me to apologise for Sherlock's childish behaviour. And the dead don't tend to talk much. Or have friends. We can never talk about what happened though, never about Sherlock. It sounds sad when I think about it like this; I'm a grown woman, my only friend is a police officer who only talks to me about work, and I lust after a sociopath. I should probably say a homosexual sociopath but I want to believe John's just an exception - that I still have a chance.
I don't really talk at work now; I just do my job and then go home. But home to what? Work always was my life, even before I met Sherlock. I love my job so much, but it's not exactly given to family. And it's not the type of conversation you could have on a date – "And what do you do?" "Oh yeah, I dissect murdered humans." – a real relationship starter, that one. I've not seen my parents for years. They were so angry I became a pathologist; they always wanted me to work in our greengrocers. I thought I was better than that, and told them so; they weren't too happy with me. They cut me loose once I'd left for uni. I've got no family, I've got no friends. Honestly, it's better if I stay at work sometimes.
The last boyfriend I had was James Moriaty. There are not many people who can say that. But I'm scared now. Scared the next person I fall for will be like him. I fell for the only consulting criminal in the world. I fell for the only consulting detective. It's not a good precedent, to be honest. Moriaty was new, he was different, and he was the only person apart from Sherlock that I've ever liked in that way. In one way I suppose I didn't love him at all; he was just a distraction, a distraction from the Sherlock-and-John two-man show. But in another, he was the love of my life; in a way I loved him more than I ever loved Sherlock. Jim paid attention to me, in a way Sherlock never would. But I suppose he never loved me either - it was all a ploy, a way to get Sherlock to notice him. See, it's not just me. I know the truth now, though. James Moriaty is evil. He's a twisted, sadistic criminal and he deserves to rot in hell. Richard Brook is a lie. And if I can prove it, I swear to God I will.
I never see John anymore. I would never have met him if it wasn't for Sherlock, so I guess that it's right that without him, John and I don't talk anymore. We were never close; not in the way he and Sherlock were, not even in the way Greg and I are. John Watson is a truly honest and decent man and he doesn't deserve this torment. When I think of John, or even Mrs Hudson, I hate Sherlock. He has caused so much pain because of what he's done. The only time I've been back to 221b Baker Street since the… incident, it looked exactly the same as before. All of Sherlock's crazy experiments covering the kitchen; fingers in the fridge; ears in the butter; his violin in its open case on the floor, his music spread across his desk and stand; his computer still logged in. John made 3 mugs of tea; one for me, one for him, and one for Sherlock. I heard through the grapevine that he'd gone back to seeing his psychiatrist. He hated that before, I know he did - I heard him telling Mike. And he's limping again. If Sherlock were here he'd be able to see why, he'd be able to explain the psychiatry behind it. Then again, if Sherlock was here, John wouldn't be like that.
It's torture not being able to tell anyone. I can see the pain in their faces; Greg's, Mrs Hudson's, Mycroft's and John's - especially John's. And I can't tell them. I can't tell them that he's still alive, that he didn't die. And even if I could, part of me thinks I wouldn't. If they knew, if they ever found out, they would hate me forever, and I couldn't cope with that. Does that make me evil? Not wanting them to hate me? I suppose it does. But it's not exactly been a picnic for me either. It's almost as if he is dead. And I've not just lost him; I've lost my friends, the whole world I was loving living in. Sherlock Holmes is alive and he will come back. I don't know when, but he will. He has to, because without him I don't think I can keep going. My life is empty without him, so empty, and I would give everything just to see him again, for him to turn up and put everything right. I need him too. For Greg. For Mrs Hudson. For Mycroft. For John.
For me.