He left me alone for a few months after the fall. But he came back, as I had prayed he would. I'm not a prayerful man, but for him I would beg to anyone and anything that could possible bring him back to me.
It was no dramatic reunion. It was as simple as me waking up one morning and finding him reading the newspaper with a look of scrutiny.
"Boring." he muttered, folding the paper in half and diregarding it on the table.
"That's it?" I asked, waiting for some explanation.
"I'm bored." he shrugged, ruffling his dark, curly hair as if to brush the cobwebs out of his mind.
That was it for our morning talk.
I returned to the surgery. I didn't want to go back to crime solving. I knew I couldn't keep him from it, but he didn't have to watch his best friend jump from a roof after proclaiming himself a fake. I wouldn't get involved with anything which could lead to that again. He followed me out the door, passing Mrs Hudson on the way. She gave me her usual routine of a hug and asking me how I'm doing. Fine, as always, I don't elaborate, I don't want to bring it up, and neither does she.
Strangely, she paid no attention to Sherlock, but he smiled and we go on our way. He got into the taxi with me, but he hadn't said where he's going.
"Where are you going today?" I asked him after a few minutes, since one of us had to tell the driver.
"I'll be coming to work with you today." he said simply. Not asking for permission, just informing me.
The driver glanced at me in the mirror "You say something there, mate?"
Confused for a moment, I shook my head. Clearly I was having a conversation...
I paid our fare, a couple of minutes early for work. Sarah had just come in too, and now would be a good time to check if it was alright for him to sit in with me today.
"Sorry? For who to sit in?" she gave me an odd look, and I looked briefly to my side, where Sherlock stood, he didn't look at me, only shook his head once before walking ahead into my office.
"Nevermind. How was your weekend?" I changed the subject, inviting a quick exchange of small talk.
He stood by the window looking out at the city.
They can't see him. He's not real, but when I blink he doesn't go away. If I turned from him, I would still feel him there. I don't have to use my imagination, I can plainly see his looks of boredom, contemplation, deduction, irritation. It's there. He is there. He is in front of me, stepping back from the glass, slowly spinning on his heel to face me. His eyes narrowed slightly, I know this look too. He's reached a conclusion and is waiting for me to think it through and get there myself. He recognised my expression, bowing his head a fraction, small smile encouraging me; I'm on the right tracks.
My throat is too tight to talk clearly. My jaw clenched tight to try and contain myself and hold back any tears that might see fit to escape. He had no time for a sob story, I wondered if he understood the feeling. He must have some idea that this is difficult.
What followed was a hoarse whisper, my thoughts walking back on themselves in circles. 'You're not real, I can see you, the others can't. This isn't real... if it's only me who can see you..." no, it didn't get me anywhere, trying to voice my thoughts to him. Just an average, ordinary mind, trying to understand an illusion of a brilliant one.
I could make him say what I wanted, if I tried. I didn't want to. I could make him do anything, but I didn't want to. The only thing I couldn't make happen was the only thing I wanted him to do. I couldn't make this real, I couldn't make him come back. His words could only be some variation of those he'd already spoken. Of course I could have him come out with something ridiculous, but it would ruin the realistic quality the experience had.
Patients came and went, he'd have been a good doctor himself. Sometimes a quiet comment to make me notice a symptom, sometimes an arrogant one when I was distracted from seeing the obvious.
I had a break, but I didn't leave the surgery. We just talked for a while. No. He talked and I listened. Not to his words, which anyone could repeat, but his voice, which held my interest in whatever discussion we were currently having.
Sarah came in to check on me, surprised I hadn't left for lunch. She'd been doing that a lot. Checking in. So did Lestrade, Molly, and Mrs Hudson. Once or twice I would hear from Mycroft. Harry called every weekend, finally sober, unless she held off on the drinking for my sake on a Sunday.
Anderson and Donovan tried once to convey some guilt ridden condolence. It was the deepest effort not to knock Anderson out. Both of them repulsed me. They deserve each other. I partially blamed them, as I did Mycroft. And myself.
Once every two months, I'd meet with Sherlock's mother. A nice woman, exactly how you'd expect a mother to be. Warm and caring. She understood the most. The stories she'd tell me of a young Sherlock always made me smile. Never did we discuss what had happened, only swapping stories about him. A strange comfort, despite knowing there would be no more to add to our memories.
Every night, he would disappear. I was never woken by violin, or gunshots in the wall. But when I woke, he would be there. Sometimes someone would catch me talking to him. I recieved many strange looks, until one day, Molly asked me about it. For once she wasn't scattered, or rambling, but straight to the point.
"You're talking to him, aren't you?"
I didn't answer, nor did he make any remark.
"I miss him too. But he isn't really gone, you know." her voice was low.
I looked at her. Her eyes were wide, her face was serious. Had she spoken to him too?
"I know. People like that, they stay with you. Not to be forgotten." I shook my head and corrected myself "Of course, there are no people like him. But he left an strong impression, and I won't ever let the time we had go."
She shook her head, about to reply, but I wouldn't let her argue while I had him by my side. I knew one day I might look to see he wasn't there anymore, and that I couldn't bring him back in anyway at all. I didn't need reminding that this was my own head. Nothing would make me forget this wasn't real.
I avoided her, when she called me. A week of missed calls, keeping my distance from the hospital.
I found I couldn't sleep tonight. I sat in the living room, and he sat in the opposite armchair. His fingers steepled under his chin, surveying me. "You have questions."
"No." I wasn't denying I had them, only refusing to ask them. What answers would I get other than those from my own mind?
"Because you're the only one who sees me, I'm not real? Some people are ignorant, they don't see things, haven't I shown you that people miss things that are important? That are there and should be noticed?"
"And you're one of those things?"
"In some ways."
I didn't push further. These questions would only damage my delusion.
He spoke again, rushed and quiet "What if there was a reason only you could see me? What if I only wanted you to see me?"
"Then I'd ask why?"
He smiled. I was asking the right questions, although I didn't want to ask any. "Because you need me. There's something you haven't gotten around to. Some unfinished business of yours." His eyes fixed on mine, burning into my mind, cold and clever grey. "What did you leave out?"
The worst thing about seeing something end, is knowing that you didn't say or do something you should've while you had the chance. Knowing that time will always have something missing, because it finished before you did something about it.
"That last phone call was over too soon, and you neglected to mention something. What was it?"
I stood up, not sure if I was able to leave.
"Come on, you wouldn't really leave another conversation unfinished, would you?"
What was something that everyone saw, but I didn't... Something that was always left out, never spoken, or openly displayed. Just there in the back of my mind, while everyone else watched us with confusion. Everyone else saw, but I didn't. And now I'm the only person that can see.
"I love you."
I don't know what I was expecting. This wasn't it.
He stood up and smiled. Not a happy smile, but almost a satisfied smirk. Not almost. Exactly that. The look he gives when he's proven right. Then he walked past me, towards the stairs. I hurried after him, standing on the top step. I was only able to see him a few seconds more, then he... vanished. Like he evaporated. One moment he was there, then he faded in a split second.
There was no reason to cry. It wasn't him. I'd known for weeks it wasn't him. I'd let my imagination get the better of me. I told myself this over and over, choking on tears. Falling to my knees where I still stood, I knew that from the time I did this to myself, forced myself to admit to something when it was too late, that I would never be able to continue, because I'd already lost all that was my life.
The door knocked. I didn't worry about hiding my distress. The person now at the door would be the last to see me. I stood to answer it, but froze on the spot. The visitor was already letting themself in.