It has been three years, forty six days, and two hours since Sherlock Holmes committed suicide.
The days have not gotten any easier. I sit around all day, waiting. I wait for him to walk into 221B, Baker Street and tell me that this cruel act was just a practical joke. Sadly, Sherlock Holmes is not a man of humour.
I visit his grave four times a week. I just sit next to his gravestone and look out into the graveyard in silence. I used to blabber on all of the time, but I soon realized that talking to a dead man would not be beneficial for my mental state. Well, that's what my therapist told me. I find his company nice.
Other than going to his grave, I stay in the flat. My therapist has made house-calls for me so I don't have to go out. I make my way through life by way of Mycroft. He supplies me with food, clothing, and other means for living. I feel bad for taking these things from him, but he refuses to stop. I think Mycroft and Sherlock really did care for each other, they just refused to express it.
Here's the thing, though: I fell in love with Sherlock from the moment I met him. I didn't know it at the time, but now it is very clear to me. Sherlock Holmes picked up the broken pieces that were left behind from the war and he glued them back together with his undying friendship. Then suddenly, he shattered my heart into more pieces than you could ever imagine and I still care about him more than anyone else in the world. If that's not what love is, then I don't know what the Hell love is anymore.
It has been three years, forty-six days, and two hours since my heart jumped off of the building along with Sherlock's life.