My name is John Hamish Watson and I'm the last one left. It's funny. You don't know what's going to be in your room until you see it. And then you realise it could never have been anything else. I don't know how I got here one minute I was typing up my blog, with Sherlock lying on the sofa with his back to me, and then suddenly I woke up here. I thought it was Mycroft, at least, until I met the others.
Praise him
Oh god it's started. The gaps are getting shorter. This is what happened to the others. Novice prince was the first to go. She went nuts and we had to tie her up. She was also an alien cat woman. Yup. Sherlock would have had a felid day. But something got her. She just died. I don't know how. And I'm a doctor. Sherlock. I didn't think I would miss him, but I do. Every second. I used to think he would come and find me. But now I have a lord.
Praise him.
Praise him.
No, NO! I have to keep thinking about him. Because I found my room 221. Appropriate, I thought. Inside was my own personal hell. Sherlock. Dead Sherlock. Dozens and dozens of them. A corpse on the bed, bleeding to death on the floor, hanging from the light fitting. Blood was staining the carpet. I couldn't do anything. I was paralysed and tears started to stream down my face. I'm a grown man and I was sobbing my heart out. Except my heart was lying dead in that room. I shut the door. I was broken. So I took out my notebook and started to write. The gaps are getting shorter.
Praise him.
Praise him.
I miss Sherlock. I miss him so much
Praise him.
Praise him.
The gaps between my worship are becoming non-existent. Soon there will be no more gaps. It's all so clear now.
I'm so happy. Sorry Sherlock.
Praise him.
Praise him.