Time goes on. Days pass without John. Weeks, months, minutes, hours. I'm losing weight. I know I should eat but I always forget to or don't feel like it. Eating is boring. Most everything is boring now though.
I've done one or two cases but it's difficult because I don't speak fluently in German and the police aren't fluent in English. Mostly I just sit alone in my flat, reading John's blog or playing violin. The new violin isn't the same as my old one. It's almost an exact replica, but it doesn't feel the same. It feels wrong. It sounds wrong, no matter how much I tune it.
I hate this flat. I hate the emptiness, I hate the loneliness, I hate the coffee stains on the rug and most of all I hate the lack of a resident army doctor.
I punch the wall and curl onto the floor. My forearm has four nicotine patches on it. My shaking hands grasp at the air air and dig my nails into the palms of my hands. I want to scream but instead I take it out on the wall, punching and kicking and clawing at the wallpaper.
Damn him, damn Moriarty. This is his fault. He took me away from my army doctor. He burned me.
I stop thrashing and cursing him as that sets in. He did it. He got exactly what he wanted. Moriarty burned the heart out of me. He won.
I tuck my knees to my chest, holding them there with my bloody, nicotine-stained hands. I lost.
I sit there for what feels like a few moments, but really several hours. I stand and walk towards the window, looking out at the city with a vacant face. I place my hand against the cold pane of glass, letting it slide down the frost-bitten surface, streaks of foggy ice crystals still remaining where my fingertips didn't touch the glass.
I sleep tonight. I haven't slept in a few days, but I'm feeling a bit light-headed so some sleep is probably a good idea.
I lie down on the bed with an unframed photograph of John and I that I cut out of a newspaper in my hands. I stare at our two faces. How long has it been since this photo was taken? I lost track of the days a long while ago. It's all a blur…time. Funny, it feels like ages since I've seen his face and at the same time, it feels like I just left.
Some nights I wake up and think it was all just some sick dream but it isn't. It's real. I wish it weren't real. 'But wishing will get me nowhere,' I remind myself.
I allow my heavy eyelids to close, drifting off to sleep.
I dream that I'm in London. Brilliant London, how I've missed it. But something's not right. Where's John? My mobile phone rings and John's voice at the other line whispers something; "Goodbye Sherlock." I spin around, looking for him. He's there, where I was, on the hospital rooftop. "JOHN!" I scream. He falls…down, down, down, down. I run to the bottom of the building, "John!" He's lying on the pavement. His blood pools on the ground near his head. "John…no…John…" I lean over him, checking his wrists for a pulse. There is none. I grab him by the shoulders and try to shake him awake. "John! John, no, no you're not dead, stop it! You can't be! Stop this!" I say; my voice grows louder until I'm shouting his name, begging him to not be dead.
I wake up covered in sweat and shaking. I lie there, struggling to catch my breath and run my hands through my hair. "Just a dream," I whisper, trying to calm myself. But I know it's not just a dream. Not for John. For John, what I just saw was real. So terribly real. "I'm so sorry John."
