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Rating: k - some mild language (two swear words)
Ship: Johnlock (One-sided Bromance)
Stars shining bright above you,
and while I'm alone and blue as can be, Dream a Little Dream of Me.
Stars fading, but I linger on dear.
I'm longing to linger till dawn dear just saying this:
sweet Dreams till sun beams find you. Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you,
but in your dreams, whatever they be, Dream a Little Dream of Me...
- Tommy Fleming
My name is John Hamish Watson. I was a soldier, an army doctor. I was injured in battle with a gun shot wound to the left shoulder. I've been consulting a therapist, Ella Thompson, whom I was insisted upon meeting due to possible trauma caused by my incident. Since, she has informed me that my limp is psychosomatic. The Ministry of Defense has provided me with my now current residence. However, I cannot afford London on an army pension. My therapist has advised me to write a blog about everything that happens to me, …mind you, …nothing ever happens to me…
. .
Due to the lack of wages and London's expenses, I'd been searching for a flat-share - that was when I ran into an old friend of mine, Mike Stamford. We had a seat on a bench, and began chatting. I happen to mention the fact that I'd been considering having a flat-mate. Apparently, as it was, I wasn't the first. Thankfully, he was more than obliged to introduce me to the other man. We took a cab as he escorted me to meet him. We entered a Hospital, a morgue. There I saw him sitting at a rather large table staring down a telescope. He asked to borrow Mike's phone. Given that Mike had apparently left his phone else where, I kindly lent him mine. He appeared most grateful at witch point Mike gave my introduction. Then, to my surprise, he asked, "Afghanistan or Iraq?". Somehow he knew, but how? I replied and asked; the man gave no answer - in-stead he chose to ignore it shifting his attention at a lady who had entered bringing him coffee. After her departure, he began telling of his bad qualities stating that potential flat-mates should know the worst about each other. I assumed Mike had mentioned me. I asked him as he replied with no. The man said he deduced from the (apparently obvious) fact that he had informed Mike earlier that day about seeking a flat-share, and then, there he was introducing me.
He already had a location chosen where we would stay. Told me to meet him there just before he went dashing towards the door. I was uninformed as to where we were meeting, his name, or anything at all. I said as much, stopping him dead in his tracks. He then displayed an impeccable sense of deduction as he laid several details of my life out in-front of me. He told me the address, then his name, …Sherlock Holmes. I don't recall any events that may have followed. I awoke, shaken, as if from a nightmare. It was only a dream, as I had told myself enabling me return to my sleep.
They say that your self-conscious mind is incapable of… pulling faces from thin air, if you will, and that everyone you see in a dream is someone you have seen previously during your life time. I suppose that, perhaps, everyone I've seen in previous dreams do seem somewhat… familiar. However, I'm sure I have never seen this man. In-fact I have never been more sure of anything in my life. Being completely baffled by the events that followed, I consulted with my therapist.
. . . .
"…I'm glad you finally decided to meet with me, John. …Though, I don't understand. …Why is it you felt the need to tell me this?"
"Well, …because that's when it all …began."
"When what began, John?"
"…The reason I'm here."
leaning back in her chair, "Then please, …continue."
"Well, erm, …a week later, after the dream, …something happened. …I was at home when I decided to go out, get some air. I was just walking down the street when, …Mike Stamford, came out of no where. I thought it odd to run into him just having dreamt of him a few nights before. He insisted we grab a bite to eat and catch up. Well, I ended up blabbering on about my troubles with finances when he asked if I'd thought of getting a flat-share. He told me because he knew someone else who'd been looking for one, and that he'd be happy to introduce us. …So, just as my dream, we took a cab and went in… not a morgue, but a university. The same university I had ran into Mike in the dream, and the university where I first met Mike during my attendance. …And there he was, …Sherlock Holmes… In the flesh. He looked a bit different, though; the clothes, the hair, …but it was him - sure enough, it was him."
With a clear voice and raising up a bit, "…John? …Are you saying that you dreamt of meeting this man… before… you actually met him."
Nodding in certainty; then, clearly stated, "Yes. Yes I am." I ,then, lean on the chair arm with my head resting in my left hand, and placing his right hand between his hips.
With hands graciously resting at her knee's, leans forward. With concern staring straight at him, "…As a medical professional, John, …you know that is completely impossible."
"I'm not crazy."
"I neve…", pauses for a moment quickly glancing at her hands, "Where you reading my notes again?"
Pulling his head up, and with his left index finger, point towards the clipboard on the side table, "Did you put that… in your notes?"
With a short guilty sigh, leans back. She opens her mouth to speak, inhaling as she pauses, "…Look, John, …sometimes when a soldier comes back from war and the events it consists of, it can be quite difficult going back to living… well, everyday life. After being in those types of environments, sometimes, going back to an ordinary life style, can make you look for things…where… there's nothing to be seen. …It's going to take a while to adjust to civilian life, John. …Go home and get some rest,…" stands up, followed by John "…and I'll see you next week." gestures her hand. He accepts, nods, and exits through the door.
. . . .
I had not finished my story, as Ella had wrote it off telling me what I thought to be rubbish, and forget all about it. However, this is not something I may soon forget. For the following months that passed would bring emotional distress quite possibly worse than that experienced in the war. Unknowing of what was to come, I walked straight in to it… quite literally.
. . .
It was him, the man from my dream. He sat there at a rather larger table. There was no science equipment, nor was he staring down a telescope. No, but in-stead he sat typing at a computer. As we entered, he continued typing, "Mike can I borrow your phone? No signal on mine."
After giving a short sigh, "What's wrong with the land line?"
"Rather text.", still typing.
Mike (wearing a long white coat) pulls some gadget out of his pocket, "Sorry, other coat."
Did my senses deceive me? Was this real? I could not believe what I was experiencing. I thought, perhaps, I had had a… sort-of premonition. Perhaps, this was what some might call destiny, and that I had caught a mere glimpse of what lye in store for me. Thinking this, and having my thoughts overwhelmed, I knew I must respond. Absentmindedly, I followed my dream, and I did so as if it were a manual. Then, pulling out my mobile, "Here, …use mine."
He ceased his typing, looks around at me, "Oh", and rises as I walk over, "Thank you." He accepts the phone, and Mike gave my introduction,
"An old mate of mine, John Watson."
Then Sherlock, retaking his seat, very confidently, and without making eye contact, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"
"Sorry, what?", purposefully not making eye contact. My amazement continued as I conceived the similarity of my dream. After a moment I replied, "Afghanistan." As he had not answered in the dream, I hoped in reality it may be different. "Sorry, How did you…", cut off by the lovely lady who entered to bring him coffee as before.
Sherlock stated, "Ah, coffee. Thank you, Molly." She left within a moment, and I knew what was to come next.
"What do you think of the violin?"
"Sorry, what?"
"I play the violin when I'm thinking, sometimes, I don't talk for day's on end. Would that bother you?"
Shifting a bit, "No, …no it wouldn't."
"Ah, …so you know why I'm asking?"
This being the first line I had said… off-course with the dream, I began to panic as I had no idea what to say next. I could no longer follow my dream/manual. The events were changing. Afraid to hesitate, absentmindedly, "…Yes. I believe I do." I knew I must give an explanation for my knowing; Sherlock had given me a look indicating as much. "…Flat-mates. …Right? Mike told you about me?"
"Hmm, yes, …flat-mates.", giving me a look as if I were clever. "Though, not Mike."
"What?"
Grabs his coat and while putting it on, "…Mike didn't tell me about you. …I told Mike this morning I must be a difficult man to find a flat-mate for. Now, here he is, after lunch, with a friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan; wasn't a difficult leap."
Bluntly, "How did you know about Afghanistan?" At this point I had relaxed into the scene. I was no longer intentionally following my dream/manual, but still unknowingly I followed it to a 'T'.
As in the dream, he ignored the question, and while doing some final touch on the computer, "I've got my eye on a nice little place in central London; together we could afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. …Sorry, I've got to dash; I think I left my writing crop in the mortuary." He began walking towards the other door.
"Is that it?"
Stopping, and as he turned, "Is that what?"
"We've just met, and we're already going to go and look at a flat?"
"Problem?"
Wandering why he would even have to ask, I stated the obvious, "We don't know a thing about each other, I don't know your name, I don't even know where we're meeting." Though I did know his name, I knew I had only known that from my dream, and that this was reality.
"…I know you're an army doctor, and you've been admitted home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother with a bit of money who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help…because you don't approve of him. Possibly, because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he just recently walked out on his wife. And, I know your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with don't you think?" He began walking towards the door, and disappeared into the hallway. Normally, I would have been shocked by an instance such as this, however, I was not; I had pre-knowledge of everything that was to be said. Though I had relaxed into the scene, still ,having heard it all before, it did no surprise me. Once he reach the door, he then turned around, peeked around the corner at me and said, "the name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street." Gave a wink, "After noon", and dashed out the door.
. . .
It is certainly a very curious thing having such an experience. Though I don't expect any readers here to understand nor believe my story, I assure you it is true. Believing is not a necessary factor of this story ,however, the only factor is that you read it knowing that I believe it to be true.
That is where my dream had ended. I knew not for a fact of what was to come, however, I knew ultimately what would become of me in the events that followed. As any person would have done, I would have gone to meet Sherlock at the address only expecting to consider the offer of living with him. Most likely (because of the alarmingly unusual characteristics of the man) I would have barley (if at all) considered the offer and immediately ran never to look back. However, having seen our first meeting in my dream, I felt an odd connection to the life that lye ahead of me should I accept the offer. So, before I went, I knew what was to inevitably happen; that I should accept and continue on my path that would lead to living life with Sherlock Holmes, however brief. Though these thoughts lingered within my mind, I knew ultimately my future rest in my hands, on my head, that it is not some useable force (some might call destiny) that would define my future. No, but that I may choose my own path; whether it be the choice to stay, or vice versa. For all that I had known the foresight could have been a kind of warning, …a warning to steer clear, to stay away. …Nevertheless, I would go there the next day… open minded, giving consideration, and make my decision to the path I may take.
The following afternoon, I went to view the flat. Upon our arrival, an elderly woman greeted us at the door. We went inside as she gave us both (mostly me) a brief tour of the place. Sherlock had already moved his things in. He appeared to have his heart set on the place; plus the woman (Mrs. Hudson) was willing to give him a good deal. Originally I had thought he intended to share a place with me, but at that moment, I realized if I were to decline, he would simply seek another flat-mate, or perhaps, try to afford it on his own. It was a lovely flat with a lovely setting. Much better than I had expected, and plenty big enough for two men such as ourselves to share. Obviously, I accepted as deep down I knew that I would.
Though Sherlock had known much about me, I still knew nothing of him. Soon after we arrived, I learnt of his occupation, and at the end of the first day, I found that I knew more of him than almost anyone else in his life. He was a Consulting Detective. No such occupation exists, as he had made it up himself. May I mention it is also extremely illegal; letting civilians onto the crime scene of an on going criminal investigation is strictly against regulations. He consulted with criminal cases so rare, difficult, and bazaar, the detectives were put out of their depth - in which situation, Sherlock Holmes was the only man for the job. I researched him the night before I viewed the flat, and I found his website. Of- coarse it didn't make much sense to me - that is, until he finally filled me in on how he knew all that he had displayed knowing about me from first glance. Apparently, he has an amazingly good sense of deduction. He can deduct the most complicated things about ones being from the smallest of details {a smudge of ones possessions, a stain on ones clothes, something under ones fingernails, indications of ones good/bad habits}. For he had a mind more brilliant than that of any other man I have ever known. Therefore, the fact that professional detectives (on some occasions) would have to consult with him, did not surprise me. On the day shortly after we arrived at the flat, a detective entered seeking Sherlock. He came requesting Sherlock's help on a case, because apparently, it had gotten a bit… well, out of their depth - now, it was up to Sherlock to solve it. Sherlock had requested I come along with him. At the time I was unsure as to what his occupation was - though I had a pretty good idea, I had no clue it was illegal; only that it could be dangerous, and being cut short from the thrill of war, I was certainly ready for danger.
The week's which turned into months that followed, we had become quite close. So close in-fact that (on several occasions) many thought or assumed we were… a couple. Yes, people thought that we were gay lovers behind closed doors. This, however, (just for the record) was absolutely positively un-true. Sherlock did cure my psychosomatic limp for which I am most grateful. We continued to solve crimes together - some that would lead from one to another. I thought of beginning my blog, but the only interesting things in my life worth writing about were strictly confidential - so, life went on as it usually did. It was the best ordinary life a lonely ex-army doctor could ever hope for, but it wasn't all action, violence, corpses, and such. No, but there were good times, fun times - times I loved, and times I took for granted; all times that I now cherish. Memories I will hold onto for the rest of my life; all the memories I will never forget, …and most of all… the times and memories I truly miss. Sherlock and I were the best of mates. He was my best friend, and I, his one and only true friend. Sherlock was an impossible man to try and live with. He left eyes balls in the microwave, body parts in the fridge, and lets not forget the time I opened the door to find a bloody severed head in there. Him being such a brilliant man you'd think he'd know better than to be so… unsanitary. You'd also think him being a detective, his favorite game might be Clue, but he was so clever he could even out smart the game. He kept insisting the killer should actually have done it - honestly, I never really understood his dilemma. I mean, for Christ sakes, he didn't even know that the Earth revolved around the sun. He was so brilliant and so clever yet he didn't know the most common knowledge usually learnt in primary school. …Though he didn't know all the detail's on the working's of the solar system, he…could appreciate it - In-fact he often stargazed. Every now and again I would catch him glancing up at the stars as he was in thought on a case. I finally convinced him that a little useless information couldn't hurt, and to let me teach him a bit of something for a change. I convinced him to sit and stargaze with me once, and it soon became a regular thing we did during our free time. I took all these time's for granted, we argued, we fussed, he complained, I reacted, …but through it all… I loved every second, […but I'd never tell him that.]
Our time together didn't last long; only a few months - three months, one week, and two days to be exact. We solved many cases, and saved many lives. …Then came the case, …the final case… which led to the end, …the end of Sherlock Holmes… It was declared a triple suicide, but in reality, it was a triple murder. A murdering cab driver. Yes, that's right, a murderer with the most brilliant job to cover up ones true self. …Even when you think you're safe; that you can trust; that at this moment, nothing bad could happen to you, I assure you, …you couldn't be further from the truth.
That night, we had been working on the case, going at it for hours on end - having been working day and night for a week. One victim had a missing suit case… of which (without Lestrade's consent) Sherlock took upon himself to track down and retrieve. With it, he returned at the flat to me, and sought my assistance. He text the murderer to meet him at an address. The address was just outside a little restaurant, where Sherlock took me, and we sat at the table closest the window to watch for our murderer. We waited as Sherlock explained what we where looking for, who the murderer was, and how he had discovered it. Shortly after, a cab pulled up out side - Sherlock assured me it was the murderer. As I was hesitant to believe, the cabby turned down a lady looking for a ride, and then… turned off his light. Sherlock requested a glass of… white wine (I believe) from our waiter, and splashed himself in the face. His strategy was to approach the cab pretending to be drunk in attempt to confirm his suspicion. At first, it worked; the cabby was fooled, and kindly declined his request. From the window where I was watching, I saw Sherlock pull out his mobile. He dialed the murderer, and received his answer. Sherlock cut himself off mid-sentence Jerking and shaking the cabby by his coat collars, shouting and screaming in his face. A few moment's later Sherlock seemed to become woozy, and began stumbling about. I knew he was no longer acting since he had given up his cover by making an attack on the cab driver. I became concerned when the cabby got out, and shoved Sherlock into the back seat. The waiter assured me it was all part of Sherlock's act. My gut told me other wise, but then again, I had never seen Sherlock put on an act as such, and clearly this man had - so, I assumed he was correct. God knows what happened the last time I interfered into one of his plans; he was furious, and never let me live it down. So, in fear of Sherlock's possible agitation, I foolishly disobeyed my natural instinct; the same instinct that saved my life so many time's in the war. Nevertheless, I took the waiter's advise to keep calm and wait for Sherlock to return.
What had happened next was bloody awful. …The Murderer took him to a remote location (as he had the previous victims), which happen to be our home, 221B. [The other's were always taken to a unrelated location. One of the things that baffled the (professional/official) detectives most.] The cabby then preformed the same method used on the other victims. Laying out two choices, he gave Sherlock a decision to make - two pills, one was poisoned, and the other was not. Sherlock would take one (of his choosing), and the Cabby would take the other. If Sherlock were to choose correctly, the Cabby would die - if not, Sherlock would die. A game of chance? No, it was a game of Chess. The Murderer reach him one of the pills; not to take for Sherlock was still free to let choose, but this was to throw him off. Did the cabby give Sherlock the good pill or the bad pill? How many time's had the cabby anticipated Sherlock's move, and would Sherlock meet that expectation exactly or perhaps, coincidentally? If you knew Sherlock, then you would think, "He can get out of it. He's the most clever man on earth". The cabby claimed to be clever, and wanted to prove he was even more so than Sherlock Holmes. However, he had an advantage - Sherlock had been drugged, he hadn't fully recovered from it's effects, and therefore, was not at his best. Without his mind in full functionality, he was made vulnerable.
Whilst this had been happening, I grew tired of waiting, and decided to find Sherlock regardless of his possible irritation at me. I however, could not find him, and never would have considered checking the flat. So, I called for some back-up (Inspector Detective, Greg Lestrade). The details are unclear now, but they had discovered where Sherlock had been taken. Once they knew this, they sent me a text informing me of the newly found information. They arrived, and stationed themselves outside the flat deducing the best strategy of going in. I however, was a little behind, and while in the process of attempting to flag down a cab, Sherlock was about to meet wit's end.
So, …Sherlock chose his pill, and the cabby took up the other. He offered Sherlock water in assistance of washing down the pill. Though Sherlock was still dazed from the injection, he retained enough of his mind to know better than drink it. He did this in the event that had been the murderer's method of administering the poison to the other victims. He then, put the pill into his mouth hesitating before he swallowed. The murderer did the same in cohesion with Sherlock. He offered to inform Sherlock of whether or not his decision was correct. He declined, for he wished to discover it the most thrilling way perhaps getting the last bit of excitement he ever would. …Shortly after, the cabby began blinking and appeared to be becoming woozy. Sherlock became flustered with excitement and anticipation, as the murderer began hacking and coughing appearing ill. It continued for a while, when suddenly the murderer broke out in an evil laughter appearing to no longer be stricken with his previous afflictions. Sherlock appeared confused, and became concerned.
Meanwhile, I had finally reach the flat, and saw Lestrade and his men stationed outside. I began to approach when Lestrade's phone rang. I stopped as he answered. After a moment of conversing, he disconnected, and turned to tell his men. They had learnt of the situation, and spoke of going in. It was risky, and I knew it wouldn't work. They would only get Sherlock killed, and I wasn't about to let that happen. So, as Lestrade had not spotted me, I came up with my own plan. I would enter the building next door, and clime to the room across from our flat. I knew the window was in perfect alignment ours' and that I may be able to get a shot at the murderer.
The cabby continued laughing. Sherlock became dizzy, and his vision blurred. He fell out of his chair and into the cold floor. He lye there as the murderer got to his feet, pacing the open floor around where he lay, and began taunting him. Though, the cabby was not completely without mercy, as he then took up Sherlock and lay him on the sofa. Sherlock lye there facing his death. He could no longer think clearly. What was once a brilliant mind, gifted by Sherlock, and the truest of all things honored by Sherlock's appreciation, was no more. It's passing left Sherlock senseless, …alone, …afraid, …heartbroken and filled with emotion he no longer obtained the ability to suppress. His upper body had a feeling of extreme nausea. His vision continued to blur as he drifted off. …His eyes shut, and he fell to sleep …never to wake again.
I had nearly reach the room when I received a ring from Lestrade. He talked with me, and what I was told could not have been less than devastating. I could not believe what I heard, but deep down I knew it to be true. I was in pure shock, as I could not find the words to speak, the ability to move, nor the authority to command my brain in making me do… anything. Lestrade's voice seemed to distance itself further and further away until I could hear only what sounded as a voice echoing in a train tunnel. Once I finally worked up the ability, I began a steady pace back to the front door. I remained over the receiver, and as he spoke calling my name, I gave no reply. At this point, my ears were ringing, and I was barely able to walk. I reach the door, and stumbled outside. Lestrade turned to face me. He disconnected, and took a few steps in my direction. I could see he tried to speak with me ,however, I could no longer interpret life. My vision blurred until everything went blank. I fainted with a thud as I hit the ground.
…I awoke with several unfamiliar faces standing about me. My vision remained a bit hazy until finally I could perceive Lestrade's face. He continued calling my name asking if I were alright. After I fainted, I did feel better. I could think of the words to speak, yet I was unsure of what to say. I felt as though I was fine, yet being a medical professional, I knew that some medical attention may be required. Still a bit shaken, everything felt a bit… unreal, or shall I say… a bit like a dream. As they loaded me and my gurney into the ambulance I must have passed out from exhaustion. After all, I hadn't gotten much sleep for working with Sherlock on the case.
I awoke the next day in the hospital. I had hoped that once I awoke what I experienced had all been a bad dream. However, from the fact I was in the hospital, I knew it to be a false presumption. When it occurred to me that perhaps I had been involved in an accident, or become the victim of a crime, and it all could possibly have been a figment of my imagination.
As I became more alert, I saw a nurse standing next to my bed checking up on my vitals. I mumbled a bit, and she turned her attention to me, acting as if she were thrilled at the event of my awakening. After a few words, she left to fetch someone. I hoped and prayed it be Sherlock. I had not asked the nurse what happened to me in fear that it all had been real. So, I lye there in my bed, my heart racing, and in extreme anticipation. The nurse returned, and stopped near the doorway as if gesturing someone in. I lye there silently as Lestrade entered the room. I hoped that Sherlock may enter next, …but no one else was there. As he approached my bedside, I was afraid to ask, but I knew I must. He had a… very…concerned and saddened look upon his face, and for only a moment, …said nothing. Though I did not wish to appear vulnerable by crying and especially in front of a man, I feared I could not contain the urge. I opened my mouth to speak, and I could not hold steady. As I attempted to force out words, my lips trembled, and my voice was broken. I asked him if it were true. …He looked at me with a strong look of certainty, and he could say nothing. He gave only a slight nod. …I cannot verbally express to you the emotions that I experienced next. I took in a deep breath trying my best to keep calm, but despite my best efforts, I could contain it no longer. Though I believe it had already been obvious by my wheezing, the sadness on my face, and crack in my voice, there was no hiding it now. Tears began to streak down my face, and I soon broke down into a vigorous weep.
I had been brought in late, therefore, they had decided to keep me overnight. The next day I was released to return to my residency. However, I did not do so. I could not enter into an empty flat I once shared with my best mate; my friend who was now… deceased. I knew I must return at some point, but I was not ready, nor would I ever be until I could truly except it.
After I stood for the first time since my release, my psychosomatic limp seemed to have returned. So, in-stead of going home, I spoke with Lestrade about seeing the body, and I left for the morgue.
The first day I met Sherlock, a lady brought him coffee, and her name was Molly Hooper. She was sweet and one of the few allied acquaintances of Sherlock. I got to know her a bit, as when we were in here presence, Sherlock most usually ignored her. She was there to great me at the morgue that day. I wasn't sure how I would react, or if I may faint again. "Well, at-least I was still it the hospital" I thought.
While entering the room I saw several body's covered in white sheets surrounding me. For a moment, I wandered which one was Sherlock. Molly walked over to one of them, and gave me a look as if telling me to approach. I did, and very slowly. Lestrade was also with us, and he came up right-along-side me. I knew it was true, but I did not want to believe it. She gently, and shakily grabbed at the sheet. The anticipation was killing me. She gently pulled the sheet back. …What she uncovered widened the eyes of both myself, and that of Lestrade's. …We were both astonished, …for it was not Sherlock. Before any thought could cross my mind, Molly quickly recovered him, "…Wrong body". …My stomach plummeted. For a mere second I thought Sherlock may be alive. I suppose that very doubt was what I was there to erase. …She turned facing the body behind her, and walked around it to the other side. I came closer as she got a good grip on the sheet, "Are you ready?", and I nod.
Lestrade stops her, "Now, are you sure this is the right one?".
"Yes."
"…Aright."
She uncovers him. …It most certainly was Sherlock Holmes. I stood there… just…staring down at him. Before, I feared I may cry when this moment arrived, however, my emotions seemed to be at a standstill. I felt nothing. I only stood there, soaking in the moment the best I could. The moment did not feel real to me. I still could not conceive the idea of Sherlock being gone - I did not see it happen. Even though I stood there, staring down at his cold corpse, I could not conceive it. I was not there for the event of his passing. Then came the emotions. I began fighting back my tears. At that point, I could only think of how I was not there when he died. This man was my best friend; we stood by each other through think and thin, and when it came time for the most difficult experience of his life, I was not there. Most of all,I was not able to spare him from it. I felt guilty. I wandered if I could have gotten a cab quicker, if that man had not jumped into that cab before me, if I had ran a little faster, or if I had helped Lestrade go in, might Sherlock be alive this day. I blamed myself along with everyone else. I blamed the man who took my cab. I blamed Lestrade for not coming up with a better plan and quicker. I blamed my self, the cab drivers who did not stop for me, and the cabby who murdered my best friend. Feeling blame and anger, my eyes dried up quickly.
We all had been standing there for quite some time. …Then without saying a word, or giving any indication of my next move, I quickly turned and exited. All had been silent and still, and I left quicker than either Molly nor Lestrade knew what to think.
On the ride back home, Lestrade rang me to ask why I left. I told him I needed to go home. When the cab arrived, I practically jumped out. As I stood staring at the front door, I heard it drive away fast from behind me. I walked up, and as I lifted my hand towards the knob, the door opened. …I looked up to see Mrs. Hudson standing there. She greeted me with a kind look, and caring voice. She held my arm as she guided me up the stairs to the flat. That was where she left me, dashing back down to tend to her diner. I slowly opened the door, and went inside. A sent lingered in the room; it was not my own. I recalled the first day I came to the flat, and smelled the sent for the first time. Then it hit me; …it was the sent of a being whom once dwelled in the world, and dwelled there no longer. It was the sent of my best friend who I would no longer have with me, and this sent was one of the last things remaining of Sherlock Holmes. I stayed calm… for the moment. …I walked over to my usually chair, and stood. It seemed since I had entered the flat, my mind continually relived the moments of the first day I came to be there. I suppose it could have been because that was the first time I had any proper interaction with Sherlock, and the previous night I had interacted with him for the very last time. I leant my cane against the chair arm, and took my seat. …For the moment, I did not think. My mind was blank. …I sat there, and soon began glaring at the seat across from me; the seat that was usually accompanied by Sherlock Holmes. When suddenly, my mind began reminiscing again, how he was no longer in the world, how I would never again see him sitting in that seat, I would never again smell that sent once it lingered, how I would never again see him nor experience another moment with him, and oh-my-dear-God; …yet again, …I began to weep.
. .
When a solider goes to war, he does it to serve his country. Not only does he this, but he does it to fight for the life of his family. In the heat of battle, the thought of family, and returning home to them, plays a most crucial part in his survival. I had nothing. My only remaining family member was my sister, and she was a drunk; abusive to her wife; and certainly never gave a lick about me. Before I signed up for the military, I had been going through quite a rough patch. I was unable to keep a girlfriend for more than two weeks, I hardly had any money, I was in-the-middle of helping get my sister's life together, and honestly, I was near to resulting in drinking myself. That was when I decided to join the military. I went into it for the wrong reasons; just as an escape from my hectic and dull life. I had no motivation to make it out alive; I relied merrily on my training. I believe it is safe to say that if I had been a full on soldier, and not just an army doctor, I wouldn't be here to grieve this day. …When I was forced to return from the war, …honestly… I was devastated. …I had no one to return home to - hell…I didn't even have a home to return to. …I was broken, my escape lost, and I was unsure as to where I should turn. …I know you must be wandering, and I will let you know now, I had no intension of committing suicide. Though, with the path I had been leading, I cannot guarantee that my intensions wouldn't have changed. …My dream gave me hope, …and all thanks to Mike Stamford, I was saved. Sherlock Holmes gave me what I most needed in life, …and that… was family. …Mrs. Hudson became…a sort-of… mother figure for me, …Lestrade became a friend, …Molly became someone I valued spending my time with, …and then there was Sherlock; to which our relationship status is unknown to me. I am and will always be forever grateful for what Sherlock has given me. Though he is gone from me, and has left me as I was before, I have more now than with what I began. He has left me alone, broken, hopeless, and devastated, but I still have a home, some family, and the memories that I will continually cherish for the remainder of my life. He has given me a reason to live, reminded me of what it truly means to be alive, and shown me what I had long forgotten. This gives me hope, and a motivation to push forward; to long and push towards a life as I had with Sherlock. I doubt he knew what he gave me, nor how much it meant to me. If I could only tell him now; the things I wanted to say, and things that went unsaid.
. .
With the time that followed, I lived in a constant sulk within the flat. I hardly ate nor slept. Having Mrs. Hudson around was a tremendous connivance; for she made sure that I kept up my strength, and consumed at-least some sustenance. Honestly, I am unsure as to where I would have ended up if not for Mrs. Hudson. The devastation of Sherlock's passing left me in a state of which I could bare life no more. As to the sight of Mycroft, I never again had the pleasure. I would have thought that me being Sherlock's only true friend would have made Mycroft desire that at-least some contact remain between us. Now and even then, I do believe that Mycroft's only interest in me was to get inside information of what Sherlock didn't want him to know. Unfortunately for him, I gave away nothing.
During this time, I began to dream again. I dreamt of my life with Sherlock; the life had I if not his life ended, one within many of my possible futures, the days that weren't, and the days that never came. It looked similar yet still different from what actually was. Every-night I dreamt of this, until it soon became a fantasy to which my life was consumed. Since the day I entered that flat for the first time after his passing, for months I never again left it. Even despite Mrs. Hudson's efforts of getting me out of the house, I remained in the flat consuming ever waking moment trying to fall asleep into the fantasy. I eventually became more and more alert to the point that Mrs. Hudson finally succeeded in getting me out. After she convinced me, I again consulted with my therapist.
. . . .
"I'm sorry, John; I am so sorry." leaning forward, and not making much eye contact.
With a quick shrug, "It's not your fault."
"Yes, but I should've listened to you; shown more concern."
"Er, Well, …you know… you thought I was talking rubbish. How were you to know I truly believed it."
"…Er, …about that. …Look ,John, …you know this isn't real, your…premonition?"
Shaking his head, "I…I… I don't know."
Slowly spoken, "I'm not trying to tell you what you should or shouldn't believe, but John, …this isn't healthy. …Even if it is real, if these dreams are premonitions, it's not helping you. You need to move on; move on with your life… This belief of yours is holding you back. You can't keep this up forever, John. Eventually, you will let go, and when you do, you'll regret all the time you've wasted. The only good to come of these dreams is to hang onto Sherlock's memory, and there's no need. He will always live on inside you and the things that you do. …He can't do that if you do nothing. …I know your grieving, but if you don't listen and let others help you, you'll never stop. You won't completely, but the pain will never weaken if you don't at-least try."
"I can't… even if I wanted to. Even if I don't try to have these premonitions, they'll still haunt me in my sleep. It's too painful to have these dreams, then wake up and go on with my life;…" With a quick shrug, "…the constant reminder."
"Well, then, John, take it one step at a time. Start by convincing yourself that it isn't a premonition, but a manifestation of your-own mind. Say your goodbyes, get rid of all other reminders…", trails off as she noticed tears forming in his eye's.
With a broken voice, "I just… I just don't know if I can." A moment of silence fell between them.
"…You said that they're were things you wanted to say, but went unsaid. …Say it now…"
After a few moments of fighting back his tears, "…I can't. …I'm sorry… I can't."
. . . .
I spent the next week in the flat, laughing, talking, and such with Mrs. Hudson. It didn't cease my dreams, but it did feel better than being completely consumed by them. The constant reminder brought up more and more pain, making it difficult to recuperate, and making me question my own sanity. Being happy most the day, but taken aback at night, seemed like more than just grief, and I feared the loss of my own mind. However, I knew that moving on would take more than just spending a week in the flat with Mr. Hudson; I would have to take the next step. …So, I decided to do the thing I feared the most; …say the things that went unsaid.
The following week I was leaving the flat more often, but mostly just for walks… not always accompanied by Mrs. Hudson. On Thursday, I happen to notice when I passed by the graveyard, and knew I must eventually take that next step. If I had to leave especially to do so, I would only continue to think up ways of postponing - I must do it now.
Approaching the tombstone, I read it "Here lies Sherlock Holmes… 1976 - 2011... Beloved friend to society…."
"…huh, …Sherlock Holmes. …I know,…Sherlock, …that you can't hear me now, …but there are things I wanted to say, …wanted you to know, …and…I… can't hold onto it forever. …You told me once…that you weren't a hero,…but let me tell you… you were the most human…human being that I have ever known. …You told me that you divorce yourself from your emotions, and sometimes… with your…sociopathy… I didn't even think you were human, …but I know that you cared. You can pretend you didn't, but I know you did. …No one with the mind of a scientist or a philosopher becomes the greatest detective ever known, and claim they have no affections for society. You just…press the emotions down so they don't cloud…your… ability's to save them, but deep down… you care. …You also have no idea what you meant to me. …Before you came along… I…had nothing, …but you gave me something to live for; …a purpose, …a joy, and most of all… a true family. …You gave me so much, …and I owe you my world, …and here I am alive, while your… not. …I serve no further purpose for this world… as you had so much more to accomplish. …I owe you so much, and I let you die. …I didn't save you, …and I… I…just… Sherlock, this world is big and beautiful,…and I'm so glad that you gave me another chance to see it; to see it in a new light…in a way I've never seen it before. …You… ,Sherlock Holmes, will live on in the minds of others, and will be… known; …I'll make sure of that. …I've finally decided to write my blog, and I'm going to make damn sure you're the center of. The world didn't revolve around you, but you were the center of mine, and I thank the heavens I got to be apart of your life. …Thank you Sherlock, …and just one more thing ,Sherlock, one more thing I want you to know… erm, …I… I-I love you. …Not in-a… weird… you know,… gay… just… You were my best friend, …the closest thing I had to family, …and… I love you; …that's all. …I love you, …I miss you terribly, …I will for the remainder of my days. …Goodbye, …my best friend, …beloved man to society, and… beloved man of my life. …Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes. I love you."
I barely got out two sentences before I began crying. I said it all through tears, and I-pray-to-God no one saw me.
The weeks that came, brought more improvement for me, but still not enough. Despite my and Mrs. Hudson's best efforts, the dreams continued. Saying my goodbyes seemed to help as I felt as if I were getting over it, but the dreams were persistent. The loss of my sanity troubled me more and more, and I began to wonder if this all would ever end. I dream of this because it's what I've longed for; what I had, but was taken away; what I've needed; and what I know I will never have again. However, knowing that I've been truly getting over his death, but I'm still dreaming of it, is what makes me question my sanity.
As I said, the dreams were of my life with Sherlock if not his life ended ,however, I've yet to go into detail on what that consists of. In these dreams, there is a villain named James Moriarty. Unlike Sherlock, he is a consulting criminal, and is sort of a loan shark in crime. He gives criminals the recourses needed to commit their crimes but not without a price. Though, his character is not as you'd expect; …he's insane. …He finds ways of getting the criminals to do what he wants when committing a crime that Sherlock Holmes gets involved with. He's likes dancing with Sherlock (in the metaphorical sense), and playing games, …because that's what it is with Moriarty; life is just one big complicated brilliant game. He's nearly as intelligent as Sherlock, and Sherlock is the best competition he could even hope to get. Each dream is like a new mystery and crime, but sometimes, I only dream of half, completing them the following night(s). I now knew that the only way to stop these life threatening dreams was to give the story it's end. In it, Sherlock must die, but this time, …I would be sure that he was given a dignified death. My dreams have become stronger memories than the real experiences with Sherlock. He has lived on in my mind, and now, by giving my dreams the proper ending, perhaps, I can finally put this chapter of my life behind me.
Several nights later, I laid down to sleep. For the past several days, I had tried and failed at achieving the ending to my dreams, and I hoped that this night would be different. As I lie there, I think only of Sherlock, I dwell upon the dreams of the past, and how the story will end. My only challenge is to live it out once I've fallen asleep. Eventually I drift off, and the story continues.
Moriarty creates his grand scheme, and the final game. He begins with a power play, showing what he is capable of doing; also displaying his power of the world, and his control within it. He ,then, confronts Sherlock, telling of all his future plans in riddles just to dangle it in front of his face, and tease him. Then, he allows Sherlock to live out his days while he prepares for the final act. He would erase himself from the records, and rewrite his past making the world believe him to be a most innocent being. Eventually he lures Sherlock to a rooftop with schemes and treachery. …Then he gives Sherlock a choice; …let the lives of I, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson die, or pretend to admit being a fraud and jump off the roof. Much to the surprise of everyone who knew him, he chose to give up himself for the many, rather than save himself letting us die. Before Moriarty forces his hand, he kills himself first - after all, you can't expect someone to do something your not willing to do yourself. …Sherlock calls me on my mobile, tells me what he had to say, and jumped. I was there, as I was made to watch. I watched Sherlock plummet to death. He smacked the ground with the most gruesome sound, and I was stunned. …At his funeral, I said what went unsaid. After all was said and done, I walked away, …but not without a glimpse of Sherlock watching me from afar as I awoke from my sleep.
Surprisingly, I was left with more grief, but somewhat relieved. Afterwards, my dreams had finally ceased, but as for my mental health, I had not fully recuperated. It was unknown to me if they may return, and until further notice, I would continue on my path of mental rehabilitation. …It later occurred to me that the detail in my dreams were more brilliant than I had the capability of thinking up, which renewed the premonition aspect to my mind. I know that I saw a glimpse of Sherlock after he died in my dream, and the thought that he may have faked his death was perpetual within my thoughts. At this point, I reconsidered the fact that it may have been a premonition. This was not a possibility I needed to consider, and was not going to improve in putting the Sherlock detective chapter of my life behind me. However, I knew it to be possible, and I suppose even with all I did to convince myself that the dreams were just dreams, deep down I truly believed them to be a foresight.
One night, Mrs. Hudson had left out on a date. I was alone in the flat, and with Mrs. Hudson out, I was feeling a bit lonely/depressed. After I began to get hungry, I just wanted to kick back, eat, watch some tele, and forget it all for a while, but we were fresh out of any food. So, I thought I'd go fetch some. The fresh air might do me some good.
After I began heading towards the shop, I felt quite pleased, and suddenly, I didn't want to go home just yet. I limped a bit, but I was in no pain. I still carried my cane with me, but did not use it. With that, and being in such a mental state, I felt vulnerable. Walking alone at night soon overwhelmed me with fear, and I grew afraid of an attempt on my life. The fear grew stronger as I walked along the street secretly afraid of what might lurk in the shadows. I tried hard not to glance down the dark alley-ways as I passed them, and convince my-self that the foot-steps I herd behind me were unreal and only in my imagination. Even though I was terrified, I sensed an insistence to continue walking or do anything that did not consist of going home. …My walking pace quickened, and as I grew tired, I knew I must soon stop. Once I passed the majority of alley-ways leaving me a long stretch of shops, I suddenly stopped nearly falling down; as in that moment, I discovered that I had been practically running with a limp. I felt out-of-breath, and I quickly turned my head around to see if anyone had been following me. No-one had, and I was relieved. I knew then that I was too unstable to go out alone at night, and without at-least someone knowing where I was. …I stood there, out of breath, exhausted, and slowly calming my-self. It was an offal calm night in London, for the sound of a car passing or any indication of a kind human presence would have been tremendously calming for me. Probably the only time I ever wished for more traffic in London. Considering my mental statute, I was brave, and handled the situation quite well. Even though I felt no longer as grieved from the fact that I believed Sherlock may still be alive, for some reason my mind was still not at ease. Once I had finally calmed, I stood there thinking only of pleasant thoughts. The moon was full, and bright in the sky. It was huge, and it's light shone over the entire city. As I stood there, I noticed something in the corner of my eye. This thing especially caught my attention from the fact that it was at the top of a several story building. So, I slightly turn, and focus my eyes onto the object. …I was taken aback by what I saw. "Did my eyes deceive me?", I thought, …because what I saw …was Sherlock Holmes… standing on the rooftop. He was not looking at me, but it appeared he was seeking something. He scanned his eyes over the streets as he stood there right beside the moon. I stared at him without even blinking. …I blinked, …and he was gone.
…At this point, I was even more baffled, and felt unsure of what was real or what was not. Regardless of my thoughts or circumstance, a contented grin was left upon my face. …However, my mind was uneasy and confused.
Now, here I am today… unaware of what truly happened. Was I given foresight? Was what I experienced a premonition? Were my dreams merrily my self-consciousness' prediction of my future that happened to be correct? How could I have been brilliant enough to dream that high a level of complexity if not it were a premonition? Then again, how can someone disappear in the blink of an eye? Perhaps, the comparables of my dream and reality were only connected by my mind because I sought it - that I wanted to find some mysterious unbelievable supernatural meaning to life. Perhaps, it was all a figment of my imagination, and Sherlock Holmes never existed at all - that he was a character my mind created for reasons to which I am uncertain. Perhaps, I've lost my sanity all together, …but regardless of the origin for these past experiences, I can linger on just saying this:
…Sherlock will always hold a special place in my heart. He will be a fond memory resurfaced by the stars. I no longer need to grieve, for I know I may yet see him again. Whether he had been a figment of my mind, or real and gone, he will live on through my actions, and will continue being a part of me. Whether or not my dreams return, I will not forsake them, let them sadden me, nor wish for their cease, because I know. …I know that no matter where I am, …no matter my situation, …and no matter my thoughts… I know that all I have to do…
…is Dream a Little Dream of You.
End of blog entry
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