Three months, today. I tried to stop myself from counting the days and even hours, but I couldn't. They say it will get easier, well, it hasn't. Not in the slightest. My Angel fe- Somehow I couldn't say it, or think it, but it happened.
Every time I close my troubled eyes, I see his body plummet towards the ground. A single word echoing around my skull: "SHERLOCK!?" I couldn't face that again, so I opened them, revealing that I stood on the roof of St Bartholomew's Hospital - where he stood. The wind played with my hair, that I had carelessly let grow, as I looked out over the city. All instincts fighting to pull me away from the ledge, but I would not move. He was gone.
I could feel the ghost of the Consulting Criminal, Jim Moriarty, watch me. I didn't really believe in ghosts, but when Sherl-, one has to hope. With a single sharp breath, I just let my body fly. Down, down following the path of my dear Sherlock. As I was nearing my 'more permanent destination', he was standing there. Arms wide and dressed in that purple shirt that I had once, rather awkwardly, complemented. I looked deeply into those beautiful, crystal blue eyes that I had grown t love. His intentions where clear, to catch me as I fell - as I fell for him.
I woke in a cold sweat, bed covers balled in my fists. I looked around - 2:21 am. Sherlock was no-where - just a dream. That got me thinking, 'what if he was just a dream...?' To be honest to myself, he did seem too good to be true... But even if he was, Sherlock Holmes was the best dream I ever had.
John .H. Watson