The Empty Chair
It was three months ago today that my best friend died. Sherlock Holmes. The best and the wisest man I've ever known. And now he's gone. There's no denying that he's never coming back. I watched him fall. I saw his blood on the pavement. I touched his cold dead hand. I was there as his coffin was lowered into the earth. But I don't want to believe it.
Whilst I know there's no way he could have survived, part of me doesn't want to believe that he's dead. He can't be. Sherlock Holmes cannot be dead.
But he is.
Moriarty's gone too, or Richard Brook, depending on your point of view. It looks like he killed himself, even though no one can figure out why. It's a shame, really. If he hadn't been so intent on killing me, I think I would've liked him.
But that's not the worst of it. There's one little niggling thought at the back of my head. He told me he was a fake. That he'd set up all those cases. Researched me before we met to impress me.
Invented Moriarty.
But I don't believe him. Not for one second. There's no way you could fake all that.
I haven't moved his stuff. I know Mrs Hudson wanted to give all the science equipment to a school or something, but I don't want to get rid of it. I like to believe that he might come back one day. I want to believe that he'll come back. Because otherwise it's just me here. Alone.
There are days when I can barely even get past the front door. I just collapse on the stairs, not wanting to get up. I can't bear to see our flat, the same as it always was, but without him there.
I haven't heard much from anyone else. I see Mrs Hudson most days, but we don't really talk. We don't have anything to say. Lestrade phoned once. The conversation lasted less than five minutes. I bumped into Molly about a week ago, at the shops. We said hi, but after that she seemed to be trying to avoid me. If I didn't know better, I'd say she had something to hide.
Some people will tell you that with time, it gets easier to cope with loss. No sign of that so far.
Some days, I'll wake up, and I'll have forgotten about it. I'll think I'd dreamt it all. I'll laugh at myself for even thinking it. I'll make it all the way downstairs, and then I'll see it.
Sherlock's chair.
Empty.
And then I remember.