My name is John Watson. I am 36 years old. Six years ago I was invalided home from Afghanistan where I was shot in the right shoulder serving as a doctor in the British army. It was then, sitting in the bell jar of my lost life that I met Sherlock Holmes. He was a man who should have unsettled me beyond belief, but from the first time that we spoke, I felt at home. Love at first sight is the easiest way to describe what I had with him.
Meeting him woke me up; he made me whole again. He taught me to value my life above all else and what true friendship is. He taught me so much.
It's been nearly three years since I lost him. Every night, I wake up crying… or screaming his name. In my dreams I watch him jump from the hospital with his arms spread like wings, but he can't fly; he just falls. I feel his limp wrist with no pulse against my fingers. I see his dented skull and his black curls soaked in blood. I see his dead, grey eyes staring at me… pleading for me to forgive him. No, Sherlock; I will never forgive you. Why did you do this to me?
Three years: that's a very long time. There's not a day that goes by that I don't miss him. Everywhere I go, I swear I see him, but that's impossible. That's just some tall stranger in a long coat with dark, impossible hair. They aren't him. It will never be him… he's dead. Still, I can't help thinking that he will just walk up to me in a café or of a street corner. I'd hug him, hold him close and breathe in his scent, just to make sure he was really alive… then I'd punch him in the face and scream at him for putting me through this. I know that this is just wishful thinking. He's gone and not coming back, but still I search for him everywhere in my once again broken life. Save me from the tedium of my actions. Restore me to the man I am supposed to be. You did it once and were right on time, so do it again. You're terribly late this time, my Sherlock.