"Tell me about what you saw."
Anger bloomed, pumping my veins with riddled hatred. After the harsh slap of fury, sadness replaced my weakening mind.
"No." I said it simply and firmly. Never could I fathom that event in words. Out loud at least.
"It's better to release it all at once," my therapist begged. Her pen was poised over her floral notepad, ready to recount the details of my unspeakable history. It was only three days ago. The funeral wasn't even until tomorrow. How could she possible be so cruel as to have me relive the horror that kept me awake at night? Visions flashed. Not complete memories, just snippets of blood and sobbing, cutting through my mind like a skipping CD. Defeated, I dropped my head in my hands and lost myself in the endless and twisted though somehow comforting tears.
"The things that you wanted to say, but didn't say it..."
"Yeah."
"Say it now."
The same livid rage blossomed once again. "No. I'm sorry. I can't."
It was too late. Everything began flooding back.
"John!" Mrs. Hudson cried, launching out of the arm chair to stir me some tea like she had for the period of time I'd stayed at the flat.
"Take a break today, Mrs. Hudson," I replied, cracking a grin. She nodded in appreciation and sat herself back down. "What book are you reading?" Small talk wasn't my forte.
"It's this great detective story I found at the market. Sherlock's gotten me into all of these mysteries," she explained, going into further detail about the case, but for some reason I couldn't focus. All day, something was off. It was unsettling. Maybe tea was a good idea. I promised myself I'd pour me some once I'd checked on Sherlock. He took a sick day, which was very unusual. In fact, for the time I'd known him, he had never let illness keep him from his work. Instead of hearing him complain all day, I had decided to visit St. Bartholomew's anyway to help out with Molly. Without Sherlock around, she was much more comfortable and out there. We talked for hours as we tidied the laboratory. In a way, maybe I was falling for the meek girl. We were scheduled for drinks that night.
"Sherlock?" I called, not expecting an answer. I knocked on the bedroom door before pushing it open, expecting to see a sickly Sherlock coughing lazily under the sheets. His bed was made and his things intact. It took me aback. Obviously, not a soul had set foot in there for hours.
"Have you seen Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson?"
"Last I checked he was in the bathroom," she responded, "but that was hours ago, and I haven't seen him since."
Hmph. Maybe he went out? Unlikely, but possible.
"Sherlock?" I tried, louder. With force, I knocked on the bathroom door. "You in there?" I experimentally tested the knob, but it was locked. Frustrated, I banged harder. "This isn't funny. Answer!" Shoving with my hip, I attempted to unhinge the door enough for me to squeeze inside, but it wasn't a simple task. Something wasn't right. Otherwise, I'd let Sherlock be Sherlock and walk away. But at that instant, I knew nothing good would face me on the other side. It took three more shoves before I gave up and began throwing my entire weight against the struggling door. Finally, with a squeal, it allowed me inside. It allowed me to face what I'd been living for, each and every day. It allowed me to see the ghostly carcass of my best friend arched over the claw foot tub.
"John," my therapist was leaning over me, concern clouding her gray eyes, effectively snapping me out of the rush of scarred recollections. "Please. Tell me something." I spiraled back into my memories...
My stomach dropped and I froze, eyes wide. Paralyzed with an array of melting emotions, I found it hard to look away. A bloody kitchen knife lay beside the bathtub. The bloody knife that had cut the jagged line across Sherlock's neck. A sob tore through my stomach, and I was on the tile, crying and hugging him and screaming for help.
This is where the memory is blurred, like a Polaroid picture that had been touched before fully developed. I remember the phone call Mrs. Hudson had shouted through panicked tears and the squad of policemen that had arrived moments later. Baker St. was suddenly packed with reporters and news anchors, waiting to write the winning story about the legendary detective's suicide. I would be mentioned in sympathy. That was the last thing I wanted to be known for. The poor, mourning best friend. Time heals wounds, they say. Too bad time tends to move slower when wounded.
Let me know what you think. Next chapter will be the funeral. Was this suicide real? Or will Sherlock return...?