This will probably be my last post on here. Not because I'm going to do anything drastic or disappear from the fact of the earth, it's because Sherlock is gone. Before he came into my life, nothing happened to me. I had an empty blog. Then this amazingly intriguing man came into my life. He knew so much about me after only a few minutes together. He couldn't have researched me. I asked the man who introduced us, he did not mention me before we showed up.
Sherlock Holmes is my best friend…WAS my best friend. And I was his. When Jim Moriarty first revealed himself to us, if you remember from our Great Game case, he threatened me to keep Sherlock in line. I recently found out that when the accusations of fraud were happening, Moriarty had people tracking after our landlady, our friend down at Scotland Yard, and myself.
Even though the hitmen were called off, part of me still died. I watched my best friend die, kill himself. I listened as he made a phone call to me his suicide letter, as he tried to convince me that he was a fraud and had been lying to me about everything. But I know him better than that. I know he was just trying to soften the blow for me. He wouldn't have for anybody else, but I'm not anybody else. I was his one close friend. He said nobody could ever be clever enough to do the things he did. But even I'm clever enough to know that's wrong. He could be.
Sherlock Holmes once told me he wasn't a hero. Maybe he wasn't, but he was MY hero. He brought me into his exciting world. He helped me see London in a new light. He never let anything get to him, which makes it even harder for me to understand what happened.
The worst part is that he died with so many people turning against him. London had him on a pedestal, and on man toppled that all. Richard Brook isn't even real. It was a role Moriarty made for himself to play. Sherlock would never hire people to make himself famous. Before my blog, nobody knew Sherlock. He had a site categorizing different types of tobacco residue. The puzzle was what did it for him. He hated the fame: the tabloids and the deerstalker pictures, everything about it. Hundreds of cases came to us, and he only took them if they were particularly interesting. That's how he chose cases: complexity, not things he set up.
I'm at the flat now. It took me awhile to find the strength, but all my things were here. Now I can't leave. How can I just move away from my reminders of him? The holes in our wall in the shape of a smiley from when he got bored. The fridge where he kept an entire assortment of body parts for experimentation. The violen he'd play when he was thinking, I can still hear the melancholy melodies he created. His skull, left behind just like me, Sherlock's two confidants. The skull can't feel his missing presence.
So I have but on more thing to say. To Mister Sherlock Holmes, if anybody could have evaded suicide, it'd be you. If you're out there, by some miracles, reading this, please come home. Let me know you're alive and okay. I don't know how to go about day-to-day life without you anymore. All I can do is sit and stare at traces of you. You were the only good part. I miss you. And I know I'm always the one saying that people will talk. I don't care if people talk. They're already talking. I want my best friend back.