Ravings

I have not written since it happened, I could not bear it, could not bring myself to hold my pen and feel it scrape the paper in that old familiar way. Perhaps I am getting old, perhaps my demons are finally catching up with me; for I too dear reader, have my demons.

Holmes is dead, I must write that. He had died in the arms of his enemy and I was not there, that fact will haunt me until the day I too die and go to join my friend – wherever he may be. It may be a morbid thought but since that day I have wondered where he is, I do not mean where on this earthly plain for I know that to be impossible, I mean is he in heaven or in hell? Surely in heaven I hear you cry; I cannot help but think that there was more to Holmes than even I knew, perhaps there was some event in his past which was unforgiveable, tragic, horrible - he was himself a mystery; perhaps he suffers torment in some hellish dimension while I go on, unknowing.

How can I leave him there? The thought drives me mad, if he is suffering I should save him, but there is no way. These are indeed the ravings of a mad man, surely Holmes must be in heaven – if there is such a thing, which I doubt. Is he gone then? Truly? His body and his soul forever gone from me? It is a notion I cannot bear, perhaps that is why we cling so depseratly to religion, to the desperate idea that we will see our loved ones again – and yet my heart despairs to face the alternative.

I hear the people of my house move around me and I do not care. I came back this morning and I cannot face even my beloved Mary, so deep is my pain. She should be the one person to whom I turn and yet her very countenance is abohorrent to me. I can no longer face the injustice of the world, I briefly thought of ending my life out there in Switzerland. What had I to live for? Holmes was gone and my child….Mary had wired me, unkown to Holmes, that our child was dead, that she was suffering and tormenting me for being apart from her. It was my place. My place.

I had no idea what my place was and now Holmes is gone I am even less sure. Mary blames me for our boy's death, I can see it in her eyes, she is hurting and I cannot help, I do not care. I care for nothing. I know that is selfish of me but I have spent so much of my life pandering to others that now I want nothing more than to plunge into my despair and end it there.

I can hear you all remonstrating me, did I or did I not berate Holmes for the very thing I am doing now? But I never understood his pain, his suffering, never could comprehend his need for self destruction – until now. Perhaps Holmes had too, at some point in his life, lost all he loved and the memory of it haunted him. I was wring to berate him. My mind is full of anger and remorse that I know not where to direct it, even poor Mrs. Hudson, that estimable lady, I refused to see. It must end, I know it must.

Sooner or later the pain must subside and I must begin to live again. I have felt this kind of pain before, when my brother died but that was expected – this was sudden, this sudden taking of all I loved. What more can the Gods take from me? There is a knock at the door.

It is Mary.

Just a one shot at the moment – may turn into something longer if people like it : )