Here comes the sun,
here comes the sun
And I say it's all right
Here comes the sun,
here comes the sun
It's all right,
it's all right... -The Beatles
I sit. I stare at the wall. It's all over now.
I doubt it'll ever feel like it really is.
Mrs. Hudson's watching Rosie. Rosie. Rosie. Rosie.
I find myself repeating her name every day. "Repetition is key," Sherlock would tell me, "Make yourself remember."
It's hard to look at him these days.
Falling in love happens exactly how it sounds like. Falling. Plummet. Dive. Drop. Descend.
Sink.
I loved the army, even though the horrors of war can never be erased. But there was always something missing. I needed more. I wanted more.
Then Sherlock came along.
I find it funny that he deleted his knowledge of the solar system when it always reminds me of him.
If Sherlock is the moon, then I am the sun. I'm not stupid. I'm not the Holmes' family pet. I know my way around the world, I was in a war, for christ's sake.
But if Sherlock is to shine, I have to go down. He illuminates the darkness, provides light to the never-ending sea of despair. I was so alone, and I owe him so much. More than he could ever know.
Rosie. Rosie. Rosie.
Sherlock just got back to the flat. I stare at him, this mess of a man trying to find his way in a world of goldfish. Rosie coos at him immediately as he walks in, and he smiles at her with all the radiance of a diamond, before gazing at me and planting a soft kiss on my cheek and proceeding to tell me about his latest case.
Sherlock Holmes is not a great man. Neither am I, in the grand scheme of things.
But it'll always be the two of us.
Against the rest of the world.
Fin.