You never realized did you? Which is almost stupidly, laughably, inconceivably ironic, because you were the man who noticed everything. Nothing escaped your icy gaze. Well almost everything.

You know asking for help isn't weakness right? Did you never realize that, which is bloody ridiculous since your so fucking brilliant. But I suppose that's just one more ridiculous thing that made you, you. That you couldn't seem to figure out the simplest of things. The things that included emotions, it's always been logic with you so I'm not surprised, not in the slightest.

You thought your feelings were so well hidden, you thought I couldn't see the sadness that haunted you. Thought I couldn't see broken memories and a bloody, tear-stained past. But it was easy to see, because it looked just like mine.

You always were a ridiculous prat you know that right? Of course you do, you know everything after all. Everything except for how much you hurt me. And really after the war, after all the blood and the earblowing gunshots. After watching friends die in my arms or at the hands of enemies. Watching heads blow, limbs torn from bodies. Those nightmares will never cease, though after meeting you they did calm. But I never thought I would hurt that bad again. I never thought I would find anything that could overcome the pain of my shoulder being shattered. Of being so empty for so long. But I did. And it was all your fucking fault. But I wouldn't expect anything less of you.

You can never do anything half-way can you? It's always one extreme or the other, there is no middle ground for you. Not even when it comes to me, or maybe you just wanted it to be this way. Either way it worked, either way I'm broken again, either way he won. You would be furious if I ever said that to your face, which is why I'm not, or not directly at least. Not somewhere where you can steal my favorite jumper and use it to clean up a grotesque experiment you spilled. Or where you try to use me as a test subject with out me knowing. But...maybe I miss that. All those annoying things, all those many, many, MANY, bad habits you had. I miss them, I miss us, I miss you.

But really you thought I would be fine didn't you? You thought it would hurt me, but not much. Maybe you were listening and saw me at your grave, maybe you saw me crying but you know what? That wasn't even scratching the surface. I cried for days, sometimes my eyes would be dry as the desert in Afghanistan and I would simply walk into the living room and see the skull on the mantle, and the tears would start slow and then by the time they would be pouring down my face I stopped bothering wiping them away altogether.

But you know what the worst part was, the worst part was all the pitying looks. Everyone tiptoed around me. Being gentle and soft and I fucking hated it. Maybe that's your fault to, always being so blunt and course that I had gotten used to your brash words. But now even Mrs. Hudson's little words of comfort sounded hollow and stale. I wish they didn't but they do.

I...I'm trapped Sherlock. You trapped me, in this prison of my pain. A glass cage that allows me to see what I had, what I lost. So I can never forget my pain. Like a bird with its wings still whole, I can fly but I'm trapped in this rusted cage. Alone, with no one waiting with the key. No one is waiting to open the doors. So I am left here to watch the sky, to long and thirst for it. But never allowed to touch it, never allowed to satisfy this hunger. And it's driving me insane.

There I said it. I'm going insane Sherlock, I'm losing my mind. Nothing matters yet everything hurts. I don't talk to people anymore, I don't go out, I don't answer my phone or go visit my psychiatrist. I don't write in my blog. I don't do anything. Just like before I met you, except you know what? Now it hurts a lot worse, now it's a wound that every time it's about to seal is torn open with someone's dirty fingers. A scar that you can't tell me is beautiful and fascinating. A scar you won't trace with your long slender fingers, with your lips, with your tongue.

I loved you. I loved you so FUCKING much. And you knew that, you goddamn knew that I know you did. So why? WHY? What was the point? Was it to hurt me, was it to prove your point, was it to rip my heart out? Because mission accomplished Sherlock. I knew that if I was ever to get hurt, was I ever to die, that you would be damaged. I knew if I died it would hurt you, but you would move on. You would grow and evolve because that's what you do Sherlock. Besides people need you, a lot of people depend on you even if you didn't know it. Or maybe it was you just didn't care.

But not me. No one is waiting, no one would miss me. Give them a few months they probably wouldn't even remember me. But you know what Sherlock? You died. You fell. And it didn't damage me, no.

It destroyed me.

I could probably rant more about my emotions. I could elaborate about how you crushed me into a million bits, but I think that statement speaks for itself. Just like some writer we've all probably long forgotten believed that you didn't need poetic words and flashy scenes to project a certain feeling. He believed that it should be simple and quick. That in itself would speak volumes. So I will say it the way he often did. No fancy words, or metaphors. Simply this.

He died. My best friend, my flatmate, and my lover died.
This will be my lost blog entry so dear readers, I will leave you with one last truth. I believe in Sherlock, and I always will.