All my regrets were sitting in my lungs, filling them and drowning me. Each memory that would flash in my mind would add to the pile of unsaid words and urges not acted upon that were now beginning to feel suffocating. There was so much I should have said, should have done... There was so much I should have admitted to him. But I suppose I hadn't seen the rush. I'd always seen him as invincible, indestructible even. I had always been so confident in the fact that no one could destroy Sherlock Holmes. Though, as he so often pointed out, I had failed to think. I had failed to think that in fact one person very well could; that person being Sherlock himself.
In all the time I had spent with Sherlock, I had never imagined he would take his own life. Though no one but himself admitted it aloud, he was an invaluable resource to us. He was God's gift to the crime solving world. He was truly brilliant and very well aware of the fact. He was his own number one fan. Therefore, I had not had any reason to suspect any acts of suicide from him. I had been put into no rush, no state of panic that should have caused me to confess. And yet here I was, blaming myself for not telling him how I felt. Maybe it was my fault. Perhaps I should have told him this all in the beginning. But I hadn't, and I had to stop obsessing over it. I had to move on.
I told myself that every day. Every time Sherlock would cross my mind, this entire thought process would repeat. Each and every time I would conclude that this obsessing and worrying over things already passed would do me no good. Each and every time I would decide it was time to move on and stop thinking about my dead flat mate. But I would always end up with him in my thoughts. I would always feel hatred and self-loathing flood through my veins when his face would spring up in my mind. The hatred would turn to tears and sorrow quickly. I missed him. God damn it, I missed him. I missed his voice. I missed his cocky smile. I missed his endless energy. I missed his boundless intelligence. I missed his never ceasing ambition. I missed his icy blue eyes. I missed hearing his violin trilling at four in the morning. I missed the sound of his fingers clicking on the key board of my laptop. I missed his ability to be so impulsive, yet so well thought out. I missed the way he rolled his eyes. I missed his blunt comments. I missed the trouble I constantly found myself in the middle of with him. I missed his danger. I missed his mystery. I missed his company. I missed him in his entirety.
His voice echoed in my head, rough and ghostly. "This phone call… it's my note. That's what people do, don't they?"
My throat tightened with the tears that threatened to spill. I hated him for choosing me to be his messenger. I hated him for choosing to say goodbye in such a way. I hated him for jumping right before my eyes, making me want to reach out though I knew I would never catch him. I hated him for dying. I hated him for being gone. I hated him for not coming back like the miracle worker I'd come to expect him to be. I hated him for making me care so fucking much. I found myself wishing I'd told him just then. I wished that I had told him how felt just before he jumped. Perhaps he would have stopped and thought out his actions. Maybe it would have made him think of the alternatives. Even if it was the shock or the disgust that would surely accompany the news I wished to deliver him, at least he'd still be here. At least I'd still have my best friend.
No. No matter how much I hoped something I could have done would have changed his mind, Sherlock never was the type of man to not follow through. His decisions were precise, and very definite. If he had decided he was going to die, not a thing I could have done would have stopped him. But I still felt the blame fall on my shoulders. I could have done more. I should have done more.
These last two years of my life had been the best I had ever experienced. Sherlock had created the danger I craved, the certainty I needed, and the friendship I had never known I'd wanted. He had become everything I'd ever desired from life. He was pain, he was trouble, he was comfort, he was regret, he was… he was love. I loved him. I wondered if he had pieced it together before he died. I wondered if he jumped knowing he was the most important thing in my life. I wasn't sure I could handle the truth of that matter. If he had purposely taken the only thing that made me feel alive, if he had ripped my life from my hands knowingly, I wasn't sure I could forgive him. And I didn't want to hate him, even though I did. I hated him and I loved him. I loathed and longed for him. I was empty without him.
I closed my eyes and imagined what he would say to me if he saw me there, sitting in our flat mourning him. His words floated through the air and echoed off the walls as if he was there.
"Does missing me bring me back, John? Do the tears you shed make me any more alive? No. Stop wasting your life. Stop crying over me and finish what we started."
I knew he would want me to continue with our cases, though I'd never be the detective he was. I would never see all that he had. But he wouldn't want his work to go to waste. He'd want it to continue. He'd want me to continue. From the day I met him, I'd become more and more certain we'd spend the rest of our days together. With each successful case, with each begrudged compliment he would pay me, I had begun to think that I was of importance to him, that he would need me always, just as I needed him. Maybe I had mattered. Maybe I had meant something to that mystery of a man. But not enough for him to stay.
"Sherlock, I miss you. Every day, I miss you, and every day I wish you would come back. Sometimes I can still feel you here. I wish you were still here," I whispered hoarsely. "Could you still be here?"
"I never left, John."