He had come back. How? I hadn't found out, yet. But I am just a doctor. It's him who has the aim to find things out.
I hadn't come back in Baker Street; that place held too many memories and it opened scars I was hardly trying to sew up. That "One more miracle" I had asked for, was working.
During the time he was away, I tried to adjust myself being without him. It was hard. He usually was silent but his absence made it all even more silent, if possible. No one seemed to understand. Everyone always said I had to move on and find some other partner to share the flat with. But they didn't know Sherlock was more than a flat-mate. He was my friend, or maybe more.
I spent most of the time working at the hospital trying to keep my mind away. At night I ran to sleep almost straight away, most of the time without eating my dinner. But that image of him falling down the St. Barth's literally facing his death, pervaded my mind every time I closed my eyes. The sounds of the sirens so high my ears hurt. I saw me, standing still. No ways I could helped him. Every night, same story. Same nightmare. And every night, helplessly, I got up, dressed up and went to the bar just at the corner of the street, to drink the night away. I barely cared about my personal hygiene anymore. I used to be so drunk I couldn't remember whether if I still lived at the 221B Baker St. or not. Sometimes people carried me to Baker St. and the morning after, I found myself sleeping on Sherlock's bed. And with an hangover.
Months went by. My pain didn't seem to sooth down. A small moustache had grown on my face but the pain was filling each and any inch of my body so strongly, that if breathing weren't an un-conscious action, I wouldn't be doing that either. I had no strength to fight it back. I just wanted it all to be over. Molly had phoned a few times but I didn't really wanted to listen to her. Her voice was always linked to Sherlock's. Lestrade had sent Sherlock's belongings to Baker Street, and Mrs. Hudson had sent them back to my new flat. From that day on, that box was still placed right next to the door where the postman had placed it. I didn't want to open it. His name written in red capital letters, next to it a label: "Closed Case. Suicide. Greg Lestrade signature." That label hurt me the most. As if Lestrade had put it there on purpose. My blog was rarely updated. There wasn't something to update it with. The only post I was thinking of was "Sherlock's still dead. No updates." But bothering my 1895 readers with some more Sherlock Holmes's news, wasn't a great idea. I didn't get out that much, if it wasn't for job or to go get wasted in the bar. I didn't eat that much so the things in the cupboards were enough to sustain myself. But whenever I went out, I always felt stared at. As there was a sniper ready to shoot me from some window. But I thought it was due to the fact I wasn't taking my meds anymore.
That morning, Sarah decided to give me a day off work. She must had seen I was too torn to focus on work. I had gotten up early, sleeping was pointless if I just kept on waking up. The mirror on the wall showed a wrecked me. The moustache still growing on my upper lip. I touched it gently and smiled a little "Who knows if Sherlock liked it." I said, as if someone could hear it. I shook my head as I heard my phone's vibration. It should've been Molly, again. I grabbed my phone and juggled with it a bit before reading the message. It only contained four words. "I don't. SH." "What the bloody hell?" I said, throwing the phone away. It was impossible. It couldn't be him. "It's Mycroft." I said to myself. "Mycroft's playing again. Don't worry." I kept on repeating to myself. I tried to focus myself on some paperwork, to delete the thought of that text from my mind. But I couldn't. Someway, I wanted it to be who I was hoping it was. What if it was really him? What if he was alive? Too many 'what if's?" pervaded my mind. What if Sherlock was really back?