I would often wonder what stars were made of, as a child.
Hydrogen, helium, and gas, mostly. That was a very simple answer, even a toddler would be able to recite it perfectly from memory. There were billions and billions of stars in the universe, each thousands of light years away from each other, forever expanding and imploding and exploding and forming new matter and black holes. Such incomprehensible numbers that even the great Sherlock Holmes could not possibly visualize the majesty that filled the universe and all its wonder.
What I couldn't understand even more was the human being by the name of Dr. John Hamish Watson. I am able to recite the entire periodic table, the molar mass of every element, create hypotheses and chemical equations within seconds, play almost implausibly arduous pieces by some of the most talented composers that humankind has ever known. I can deduce and eliminate clues within milliseconds, focus my mind and allow it to create judgements and prospects that other detectives would not be able to conclude within months of close study and deliberate tracking.
I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes, a proper genius, and what always manages to break me is you, John Watson.
I have prepared numerous studies and saved an abundance of conclusive data on my laptop about them, I have tried many experiments on your DNA, played certain compositions on my violin to see your reaction to the types of music, and I have tried every single possibility I can think of to figure out you, John, but I just cannot do it.
You breathe like every other being on this planet, but your breath contains matter that I cannot see. Your jumpers, however absolutely ridiculous they are with their drab colors and ludicrous patterns, are soft and warm like any others, but emulate a strange allure that makes me want to embrace them, bask in their warmth. Your hair is like any other normal bloke's hair, it could be anyone walking down the street, but no, it's John Watson, and your hair's smell releases emotions and powers that nothing else in the world could possibly do except for maybe you, John Watson.
Your lips, dry from licking them constantly, are cracked and thin. Yet no matter how bad of shape they are in, they are somehow so incredibly beautiful that I just want to press mine to them, allow your kiss to occupy my hollow and broken heart that everyone says I do not possess. Your smile, almost as adorable and intoxicating as a small animal, fills my soul with joy and I feel as if I can float, drift in between your teeth, feel your words caress my back and hold me in a comforting and protective hold.
Your body, short and stout but beautiful, is like any other small man's, but instead when I see even just a sliver of a shadow, I wish to grab you and hold you and never let you go, and I want to lift you and and swing you around like lovers do in the afternoon to a tune of sweet, sweet adoration and intimacy. I want to kiss you in places you have never been kissed, explore all there is to John Watson and learn what makes me so irresistibly attracted to such a simple-looking man who is oh so much more.
But it's your heart, John Watson, that allows me to love you. Your kindness, your acceptance, your tolerance of me that no one else, not even my own brother, seems to possess. The way you smile at me when you say something clever, the way you laugh when we snicker at ignorant people who have no idea why we giggle. The way you care for everyone around you, the way that you protect people and would do anything to save your loved ones. The way you shot a man to save my life the first night we met. How any other person in this universe would refuse to move in with me within five minutes of meeting me, but you gave me a chance. You gave me many chances, John, and I destroyed every last one and now it's too late, John, you left me, John, I was too stupid and foolish to leave you, John Watson.
And now I sit here, sobbing at a grave that is filled with your splendor and the only remains of John Watson are the ones in my heart, in my heart that everyone said does not exist, that they still think does not exist, and I want to claw through the dirt in the ground, John, just to feel your touch again, even if the blood running through your veins in cold, John Watson. I want to be able to embrace all the heart of John and tell you over and over again how much I loved you, how much I always wanted to tell you, how much I still love you and how much I still want to tell you, and how much I hope that you hear what I am thinking and that you are holding me, even if I cannot feel your touch, John.
They say that human beings come from stardust and exploding matter, John, but I never saw anyone as a star but you, John, and I still believe you are a star in the sky, no matter how improbable and desperate that may seem. I felt your stardust, all the things that made you human made you amazing and beautiful and everything I have ever dreamed of. No human has ever been made of stars but you, John, and no one will ever be as amazing as you are, John, no scientist or philosopher or writer, and it pains me that few people will be able to realize how special and amazing you are, John. To see how much you matter, for your name to not be just one on the paper with a headline that reads, "Suicide of Former Army Doctor," not just another one of the billions upon billions of names that will never be remembered, that have been set off into oblivion, never to be seen again. You are the only star in the night sky I see, the only person who is made of matter and the wonder and incomprehensibility of the ever-expanding universe that no simple human can understand, and I failed, John, I never was able to fully understand your beauty and tell you how much I loved you, John.
And someday, John, I promise you, no matter how long it takes, no matter how much I have to do, I will someday join you in the sky, as a star, although I can never be as wonderful as you, even though I will always feel undeserving of your love, John. I will join you, I will weep for you, and I will try, oh, I will try, John Watson, to dissolve into stardust and be as beautiful as you, John Watson.
They say the universe is amazing and beautiful, but the most beautiful piece in the billions of stars will always and forever be you, John Watson, even if nobody knows it.