This is one of the hardest things that I have done. I've spent hours figuring out what it is that I should say, what I'm supposed to say. Nothing comes to mind… I don't know what I'm supposed to say really. That he was the best man, that he was a genius. He was all those thing, but those words wouldn't bring him back. Nothing that I can say will bring him back. And that's what hurts more than anything really.
He meant so much to me, he still does. It's gets harder waking every morning. The day usually starts with me yelling at Sherlock to stop playing the violin at 3 o'clock at this god for saking hour. But then I wake with no music, no sound and realise that there was no one but me. I go downstairs to expect him in his chair having his morning tea that Mrs Hudson would bring him. Or with his head buried in papers solving cases but the room is empty. The papers in the living room were out of sight due to the fact that I can't bear being on a case when Sherlock is never there. Sometimes I glance towards my side expecting him in his long black coat but all I see is my shadow walking across the wall.
Mrs Hudson always greeted me every morning with her head poking around the door from the kitchen with her warm smile and a cup of tea. I remember the kitchen being filled with experiments, with fingers and thumbs being scattered along the table. He was always using the microscope, his way of ignoring you like a child putting their fingers in their ears to block out the sound of everyone. I would have opened the fridge to look for something edible to eat but find myself look at a head being stuck there. Remembering Mrs Hudson once opening the door with thumbs in a plastic bag. I bet Sherlock wasn't happy with her after throwing them out. She said that it would be nice to send his science equipment to a school. He would have probably turn in his grave knowing that someone was tampering with his things. Apart of me didn't like the idea of someone else using his things. I probably would have put them away in a cupboard but I couldn't let go of it. Sherlock had always loved his experiments, his work. Giving it away felt like it would be giving away apart of him. Maybe it wasn't such a bad thing after all. I couldn't bear the thought of seeing it because it would bring memories back but I wanted something of his to keep. Sentimental reasoning, I like to think.
I walked down the hall and made my way slowly towards his bedroom. The door was always at a close, probably to keep me and Mrs Hudson from peeking inside. He never liked anyone messing around with his stuff. I finally made my way in front of the door. I reached my hand towards the door handle but it just rested there as if I had frozen. It took myself a moment or two to finally bring myself to move and open the door. I stood in the doorway, glancing from left to right. His room was spotless, if only the kitchen table could have been kept that way. The bed was neatly made and the floor wasn't covering in papers, which was why the living room had always been a mess. The walls are nearly bear but with the period table stretched alongside one wall with some famous scientists hanging on the wall. I sighed in depression, of regret. Wishing that I had never entered the room in the first place. I placed myself upon the bed and something had caught my eye. Upon the bedside table next to the lamp was a picture frame. I grabbed the frame and I found myself looking at a similar face (two similar faces for that matter) One was a little boy, standing next to his big brother with a little red dog sitting between the boys. Sherlock and Mycroft with their two smiling faces gleaming up at me. To tell the truth, I chuckled a little to myself in amazement. They both looked really happy in one another's company and that was hard to say these days. It made me happy seeing the picture, knowing that Sherlock would wake up to it every day. The thought of that make my smile even more.
So what is there that I can say? These are the only words of comfort that can I give at the moment. I'm sure that I could go on for longer but the point is that at some point I will have to come to a close. Sherlock had changed me in ways that no one can ever say and brought something out of me
that I thought never existed. He made this world a better place and helped so many people along the way. Not many people in this world can say that but he did and think that because of him he made life worth living. How many people can say that?