It wasn't the first time I woke up in a pool of my own sweat. Many times I did after the war, but this was different. Not unlike the last four weeks... but different. It wasn't like the war nightmares. There you were in action. Fighting or healing on the front line. The bullet could pass right past your eyes and sever the guy behind you. A knife could be jammed into your gut. But it was only a dream, it wouldn't hurt.
But this hurt. I can tell you that. His face, his weak limp figure. His death. At one point in my life I didn't care if I lived or died. So to lose my only reason to stay living hurt more than death itself. If I could return to them cold, horrid flashbacks of my reckless past I would. Oh trust me I would. I hated every second of remembering "Doctor" John Watson. He wasn't a hero. He was a coward. He could never save all the solders, and if he couldn't do that he wasn't good enough.
But John Watson the doctor was different. He was a companion, a detective. Even a celebrity. I don't mean to brag but I had more "attention" than I had in years... I suppose it being gone now isn't what hurt the most. It wasn't that I wasn't living it any more. Its the fact that he- Sherlock made me the guy I wanted to be. The guy who saved people, actually saved them. Who figured out the clues and stopped the villains. I could finally be the person I could never be in the army.
I suppose when I lost him. I lost me. Not in corny way but in a true way. Its almost as if my favourite toy was stolen and the only way I can continue the game is to get it back. But it isn't a game, or a toy. He was Sherlock Holmes. A man of too many words ( it was always better when he didn't talk.) I remembered the many occasions he would just grab people off the street and accuse them of things to see what he could find out.
I'm not calling him crazy. But he was. I'm not calling him clever, but that he was immensely to. However I am saying he was my best friend, and even if that crazy twat said otherwise I was his. So i guess this is my last blog post. Not because I cant bare to write without him, but simply as I don't want to. How on earth will life be interesting without him.
Bang. He closed the lid and set down the laptop. Sat next to him was a steaming cup of tea that miss Hudson must of left him. John must of sat there hours trying to finish it and even then it didn't sound right. He couldn't publish that. It didn't do him justice, and somehow if the blogs never ended neither did Sherlock. "Miss Hudson!". John screamed. His dressing gown slightly undone and his hair in a nest. "I think i might need coffee, looks like this blog needs more work."