The Journal of John. H. Watson MD

Title: Remembering the man :- Sherlock Holmes

I've been sitting here for at least an hour, maybe two, trying to think of a way to start this. After several months I've finally decided the best way to deal with my grief is by writing about it. My therapist is greatly surprised, but then again, so am I. I never thought I'd need to sit down and document my life without Sherlock, but I guess there comes a time for everyone when you just can't take anymore.

I guess you want to know how it all began...but if you've read my blog there's no need to explain. I will never believe that Sherlock could do...that. And I want to make it clear that he wasn't a fake – as I'm sure most of you believe the press saying he was. Sherlock was a hero and a genius, even if he was an arrogant dick along with it. He would never create a 'consulting criminal' and commit kidnap and murder. Anyone at all who has employed him will know that. How can you say that he planned crimes that people all across England came to seek his advice about? Sherlock was a man of pure intellect, he observed what we did not. He was...brilliant.

I've seen things at war in Afghanistan that could make the toughest men break down...but...when the person you're the closest to, your best friend, is standing on top of a building about ready to jump...how can you find any words to describe that? You may not believe it but he was crying – I could hear that on the phone. Sherlock never cried. He was more human than he'd like to believe. I guess what hurts the most is the fact that he'd already made up his mind. He knew that if I wanted to I could get him to back down and that's why he didn't give me the chance. At least...I'd like to believe I could've stopped him.

Lestrade has called twice, the first time to offer his condolences and the second time to give me Sherlock's phone. They'd apparently found it on the roof of the hospital along with the dead 'Rich Brook' or Moriarty as I know him to be and will continue to believe he is, or was, until the end of my days. I'm not really sure how to feel about being handed over my dead best friend's possession. I personally think it should have gone to Mycroft.

Worse still is the fact that on the screen of the phone is my picture, my contact picture. Sherlock had simply ended the call without bothering to wipe the screen. The duration of our final phone call is still stated : a couple of minutes. Our last ever conversation had been a couple of minutes long. How am I meant to feel about that?

I can still hear it. His voice, inside my head, telling me that that phone call was his suicide note. He chose me to be the last person he ever spoke to. His only friend. I oddly find the tiniest of comfort in thinking that my face and my voice were the last ones Sherlock ever saw or heard. I didn't even hear him hit the pavement. The world felt like it had stopped turning, like time was slowed right down. Back when it was all happening a small part of me thought he wasn't going to do it, I mean, he had no reason to that I could think of, that's why it didn't register straight away in my brain that he was falling. I often think about what I should have said in those precious last seconds -

"Don't do it!"

"Please Sherlock, NO!"

I even consider how I wished I'd confessed.

"I love you"

Although...it wouldn't have made any difference. Sherlock was still as stubborn as hell, that wouldn't have changed.

I never properly got to see Sherlock after the hospital staff wheeled him off, not until the morgue. But then when it came down to it I couldn't do it. He was lying there, a body covered by a white sheet. Lifeless. I think I got as far as lifting a corner of the material before I broke down. They had to get Molly to ID the body for me. The ironic thing is...they gave me a orange shock blanket, just like the one he'd had. I bet Sherlock would've got a kick out of that. As far as I'm concerned the last time I saw Sherlock Holmes was not on a cold metal slab in Molly's lab but when he was standing on the roof of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital, arm outstretched towards me as he told me 'Goodbye John.'

Life is very different now at Baker Street. At first I didn't return, I went to stay with Harry, but now I'm back it feels a mere skeleton of the house I remember. 221B is not somewhere to live anymore, it's a place to exist. I've got so used to Sherlock's energy that I've forgotten how to be alone. I sit here for hours sometimes, just listening. If I hear the creak of a floorboard or the hum of someone talking I assume it's him bounding in with some new ludicrous case or him prattling on to me when I wasn't even there. It feels as though he hasn't left – I haven't touched a thing since he's been gone. When I decide to try and tidy up I get as far as picking up a couple of books and I find myself unable to see the process through. I get sick of waiting for him to turn up but at the same time I can't stop myself hoping.

I can't bear to open our fridge for fear of seeing a piece of pickled anatomy floating in a jar that will instantly remind me of Sherlock and how much this whole ideal has truly affected me. Now and then I've tried to leave the flat to clear my head but I keep seeing him everywhere. Streets that I've walked down a thousand times without hesitation are now screaming reminders of when we've both gone running down the cobbles on a high speed chase or just gone for a simple walk. The pale sky reminds me too much of the colour of his eyes and seeing all the business men in suits and long coats and scarfs just about knocks down whatever dam I've built up inside myself.

Once when I was hurrying back to Baker Street I passed a businessman I knew. Mycroft had not attended his brother's funeral and his only contact has been a text asking if I did indeed tell Sherlock that he was sorry. At first I'd been enraged by the man's detached approach to his younger brother's death and I had often contemplated marching down to Mycroft's office and yelling at him until my voice expired. But now I can see that humble silence is Mycroft's way of coping with his loss and that as he stood staring at 221B he was waiting to see Sherlock miraculously appear once more. He isn't the only one.

Nowadays the only emotions I knowingly feel are a sense of being hollow, angry and guilty and I fall sick an awful lot. Blood especially seems to make me feel ill – inconvenient seeing as I'm first and foremost a Doctor now. Blood reminds me of the crimson that spread across the pavement from Sherlock's battered body and always brings to my mind how his usually pale, judging face had been painted red. I've lost a considerable amount of weight since Sherlock's been gone and I'm now bordering on being as slim as he was. The only difference is that I look ill with it – I'm a Doctor, I know what malnutrition is. Mrs Hudson tries to get me to eat but eating now makes me feel guilty at the fact that he can't eat and never will be able to again. She does try to cheer me up but it doesn't help me at all ; I hear her crying too.

I haven't left the flat for weeks now and the only person I ever see is Mrs Hudson, although I'm now beginning to shut her out too. I'm thin, I'm depressed and I'm scruffy and yet I don't care. I'm such a recluse now that I often wonder if I'm becoming Sherlock, cutting out all human emotion and living each day as if by default. Strangely this idea pleases and scares me – it separates me from who I am – the man who watched Sherlock Holmes die – and links me more to the mindset of the greatest man I'd ever known, bringing me closer to the man I loved.

Yes, I will admit now that I did love Sherlock. I never told him and I denied the notion of our being a couple right up until Sherlock's dying day. I think of him often and how without him the world is no longer a place packed full of mystery and adventure but one of hurt and peril. I live in a city with too many memories. I don't know if Sherlock figured out how I felt about him before the end – honestly I don't know if I want to know if he did. In my heart I have a feeling that Sherlock did indeed know, he was a genius of deduction after all. The memory of him telling me to take his hand is enough for me though. It'll have to be.

Sometimes I wake up in the night, shocked awake by imagining I feel a hand on my face or I hear my name being called. Sometimes I even trick myself into thinking I've seen him leave or I hear him playing his violin. I suppose if I'm going mad it's a good thing nobody is around to see it. I haven't been back to work properly ever since the funeral, moreover because they said I needed to be stable before I could see patients again. Mrs Hudson doesn't charge me full rent yet – she only charges me for my half and not Sherlock's. I asked her why the other day and she told me the money is still coming in to pay for him. I guess Mycroft has a heart after all.

I'm not going to even try to get past this – I'd rather have haunting memories of Sherlock than none at all, even if some of them are unpleasant.

The surgery called me a couple of minutes ago and told me that they need me to come in next week, at least for a couple of hours. The strength I once had as a solider seems to be all but gone and I'll admit I'm scared of the world now.

I'm going to have to bite the bullet and start my life without Sherlock, whether I like it or not.

R.I.P Sherlock – Keep working on that miracle I asked you for.

Posted by: John Hamish Watson

Date: 17th April 2012 – 14:56 PM