We all know how he died. And how he is a fraud. Supposedly. But those people don't know him. I do. He isn't a fraud. I still think of him in the present, because he is. In the flat, at the restaurant next door,… Everywhere. Everybody says I handled his death quite well. I started believing them. Of course I didn't, I knew that deep down. But I didn't care. Everything was better than facing the truth. I tried to move on which wasn't easy but I had to. I owe it to him, I think he wouldn't have wanted me to be… to CARE so much. Which was impossible. He would've wanted me to live. It's hard. I've considered suicide yes. I would've gotten through with it if it wasn't for Mycroft. There I was, standing on the rooftop of St-Bart's, ready to jump, just like him, and there he was. Mycroft Holmes. The brother of my beloved Sherlock. Now don't think we were together or anything, no, he was my best friend. He IS my best friend. That will never change. He gave my life a meaning and I may have made him more human. Of course he was human; he just wasn't as nice and friendly towards people. He isn't a psychopath or a sociopath. No, far from actually. But I don't think anyone else besides me (and maybe Mycroft and his parents) know the Sherlock that I love.
He just stood there and shook his head. That was the moment I felt something I didn't feel before. I felt sorry, but not for me, for Mycroft. I suddenly realized Mycroft also lost a loved one, his brother.
(After Sherlock died, Mycroft and Lestrade grew closer - don't ask me how that happened, but it did – and I think they might be together now, but I'm not sure.) I really, really wanted to jump but I couldn't anymore. I know Sherlock wouldn't have wanted this. So I didn't jump, went back inside and exited through the backdoor. I strumpled home and when I arrived, I went to his bedroom. I threw myself on his bed and started crying. For the first time in six months. I fell asleep after more than an hour of sobbing. I didn't have the energy to get up the following morning, so I stayed where I was. The room still smelled like him, everything stayed untouched, which I was the cause of. I think I stayed in there for six days, finally being able to sleep after all those months of sleeplessness. It felt like Sherlock was still with me, which comforted me. It seems weird, but after that I moved on with my life. I don't know why that was, but the fact was that I could, so I did. I started working at the hospital again, I went out more often and had quite a nice time. Lestrade never called me for a case, which was logical because Sherlock wasn't there anymore, but he did visit me regularly. He became my friend. After the six days of sleeping, I kept sleeping in Sherlock's bedroom, until I got married. I married Sarah and I loved her, but something was missing, even after we had a son, Hamish. I let Hamish sleep in Sherlock's bed when he was 10 year. Now I feel like my time has come, that I can join Sherlock after all those years and it gives me a pleasant feeling. I don't feel sorry for myself; life has nothing to give to me anymore. So goodbye to life, goodbye to air, goodbye to Hamish and Sarah. I'll miss you. And I love you.
We will be together again. At last.
