I wonder if you know how brilliant you are. Then I realize of course you do. Long limbs and destructive habits aside, you've always known your mind. You ignore your body (contours and shapes, shadows in every crevice, and porcelain flesh) in favour of the flavours of your mind. Ideas and formulas and analysis, sometimes you befuddled me. Your words tangled together and ideas blended. But, what worried me the most wasn't the idea that you could know all of this at once and have it synthesize – but that you couldn't handle it.

A rocket burning in the atmosphere; a meteor hurtling through the stars, raging and twisting – you were burning inside. Behind your eyes, I could see, you were burning. So you went cold. You became distant and icy, naturally trying to cool the fire inside. The idea that the Work was everything because the Work kept you cool, kept you from being consumed. Perhaps the Work was the fire. Even if I told you, though, you wouldn't listen. You never listened.

You always seemed so untouchable. Your body all sacred curves and silver arches. And I was right. You couldn't be touched. You touched others. Maybe not the way others might think, not like you touched their lives and made them better people, but you touched them. You became the pervasive parasite under their skin. Making them crawl because you saw them. But sight wasn't enough. You touched them and got under their skin and traced their history from their bones.

You did it to me. I still feel you, under my skin. Beneath the tan, scarred flesh you writhe and twist, pulling me toward you. Because I am the Earth and you are the sun and I revolve around you. I am pulled by your gravity, by your darkness (dark spots on the brightness, they intrigue me, call to me, coerce me, they are a siren and I will fall to your depths). No one understands this. They call me a puppy, a follower. But I don't mind. I don't care. I see you.

I see you and you touch me and together we coalesce.

But Death joins us. Death with his skeletal hands and shadows carved from bone. You remind me of him. Dark shadows and even darker jobs. But Death is not Sherlock because you stay. You remain to watch the remnants – you see (touch) the widow and the families and you watch the aftereffects. After all, what is an experiment without results? A crime without a result? Death does not do that. Death leaves. Collects his souls and walks away, leaving us to watch. You've stayed.

So where are you going?

Standing up there, the sun behind you highlighting your shadows and I am blinded. But I can't look away because this is important. You're looking at me and over the mobile I can hear you begging me to look at you. You don't even need to ask, Sherlock. I'm always looking at you. Watching you, cataloging the way you catalogue me. I raise my hand to you, almost asking you to take it, but you're far away now. You're telling me that you're a liar, but I know you aren't.

You couldn't be a fraud. You never could because you're Sherlock. And Mycroft couldn't do it if you couldn't because you're related and I know it will drive you mad to hear it but you two are more alike than you think. So don't bother lying to me. I know something is wrong. So come down here and we'll sort it out. We always do.

I hear gravel scrape against the phone as you throw it back. This confuses me, because you don't let your phone go. It's a part of you. The technology in the machine; like a cog that fuels you. And, for a brief terrible moment, I know what you're doing. I can feel it under my skin, you're screaming and deducing, and – sweet Jesus – I know now. But I don't. My mind rejects it. I reject it.

You look beautiful standing there. Your coat billowing behind you. You look devastating as you stand there. A dictator watching his peons below. But you don't look at me like that. You look at me like this is vital, that I have to see this. Believe it. But I don't, Sherlock. Don't you understand? I don't believe this.

You're falling. I almost expect wings to sprout from your back, the angels coming to rescue you. I expect skeletal wings or perhaps wings made of chemical compounds and bone (yorick will miss you so). It's ridiculous to expect wings but I do. I expect wings or light or something to save you. Your name is on my lips (behind my teeth, behind my eyes, under my skin). Then there is silence. My mind goes blank.

As you crash to the ground – (a sickening crunch, the sound of bones against flesh, through flesh, and Death comes to collect) – I can't tell if the sound echoing is your body or my heart as it breaks.

("Sherlock?")