My therapist thinks it would be a good idea to write everything down. Just keep telling you all this until I reach some sort of catharsis. Because it apparently makes a man less mental if he spews his rambling thoughts to nonexistent
I'm sure you wouldn't understand it. But here I am, all the same.
Do you know what I do now, Sherlock? I sit at the table and I drink tea that's gone cold and I stare out the window like some clichéd sad teenager whose boyfriend just left her for another woman. And I try to get into my work, I think, maybe I can focus on that, maybe it'll be interesting, but they've got the flu, the whole lot of them. Or an infected cut, or they're just trying to get drugs.
So I've started watching those American crime procedurals. And I've doing sudoku. I've gotten very, very good at sudoku. Not by your standards, I'm sure. You could get them all in a heartbeat by taking a glance at the photo on the back cover and saying, "That's the sort of man who would put sevens in the corners", or some nonsense like that. And when I get stuck, that's all I think.
But they help some, I guess. That is, they're a nice distraction, even if they're not doing anybody any good.
I miss that justification. Because even if it didn't matter to you—which I don't know is entirely true, but anyway—I liked knowing that we were putting our…want or…or need for…this…that we were putting it to good use.
But that's not even what I miss. I don't think it needs to be said that you can't be replaced by some bloody sudoku puzzle. I miss you, Sherlock, plain and simple, and no matter what else happens in my life, I am always going to
I wonder, if you knew, if you actually had the slightest understanding what you
I wonder if you still would have done it.