Sometimes I sit at my desk in the middle of the night, and I try to write the rest of my story. I try to write to the best of my ability, but the words scramble on the page and I end up with writers block. It's hard to just sit here though. Sit here plagued with the memories. My wife knows something's wrong, but I don't like talking about it much, that's probably the reason we're separated. Everyone knows about Sherlock Holmes, the greatest detective in all of London. He could solve cases by noticing the tiniest of details that no one else would even think about. Could tell a pilot by his left thumb, even knew everything about my sister after just seeing me for about thirty seconds. Some people thought he was a miracle worker. Some people called him in-human, said it wasn't possible to do the things he did. I believed in him. I believed in him even when they didn't. I still do, even now.
I remember running down the street in the middle of the night to catch a murderer. I remember having to pull a gun out of his hands because he'd decided to paint a smile on the wall of the apartment and had been shooting at it. I remember lots of things, things like his experiments. One of them ended up surprising me with a human head in the fridge. Crazy bastard never did know suitable from not. Did you know he once stole an ash tray from Buckingham Palace? We giggled in the backseat of a cab over it for ages. He was my best friend.
When I say was, I do mean it in past tense. You see, he died over two years ago. If the world didn't know him already from his reputation, then they read about him in the papers. He was my best friend and I miss him all the time. Sometimes I spend hours just lying in bed and staring at the ceiling. Some have tried to pull me out, get me doing things again like before, but nothing's the same. It won't be the same as it was. Not ever. Rumors had started to leek out through the media. Headlines like 'SHERLOCK'S A FAKE' 'FAKE GENIUS' People were starting to doubt him, Moriarty had planted the seed in all their heads. Sherlock wasn't a fake. I thought maybe he'd pull through it. Prove that he wasn't, just like I believed. But something was off. Something changed that day on the roof of St. Barts...
I'm sorry, I- I need a minute. This is usually where my writers block kicks in, I just can't bring myself to continue. It wasn't his fault, I know that. Just one more miracle Sherlock, one more just for me. Don't... Don't be dead. Just for me, just stop it. Please.