when he wakes up there is no comforting
feeling of someone sitting on the edge of his
bed; he thinks that maybe he got tired and
left but the rest of him thinks that
he's still all alone.
he doesn't fall for him until it's too late
too late for short goodbyes and
late-night whispers in each other's ears
when the other can't sleep
no texts
no i love you's
just silence
heavy deafening silence.
he gets up and goes to work
but misses having him bug him for
certain things;
we're out of milk
the toaster caught on fire
hellp
i htink i was stabed
i'm bored
i don't like repeating myself
and things that would always make him laugh
but suddenly that laugh that's always there
is gone.
it's foreboding
how he's treated like the senior griever
he thinks it should be his mother,
the woman who gave birth to a sociopathic detective,
but it's not
because people just
assume.
he visits his grave and kneels down and touches the
black marble
white words
a name so different
it's pristine like glass,
sharper than a knife
sherlock.
goodbye, john.
his last word was his name.
he goes to bed thinking of doorknobs
and serial killers,
of burning bodies and heads in the freezer
of his violin coaxing sweet notes onto the strings
yet when he wakes up there is nothing but an
achy feeling in his chest and sunlight
streaming across the room.
he doesn't receive the text until he's already got a
gun in his hand and he thinks he might pull
the trigger
he's standing on the rooftop, ready to let his body
fall like his did
but then his phone chimes
and he's suddenly lying on the top of the roof
flat on his back.
"I'm alive." - SH.
"Come home." - JW.
"I will." - SH.