Weeks passed, months, years. We were constantly investigating all sorts of crimes Scotland Yard didn't get further on. The cases kept flooding in. More and more people came to us with the weirdest stories. The visitor count of my blog augmented, Sherlock was all over the news. Every time we'd step out of that door, paparazzi lined up with flashing camera's and reporter microphones. A case about a painting of the Reichenbach Falls brought us the unwanted fame. I don't think Sherlock liked being followed by the press everywhere, and I most certainly didn't either. I tried suggesting he'd leave some cases untouched, but of course he didn't listen. Maybe just because he didn't want people thinking he wouldn't be able to, which illustrates that Sherlock liked to be applauded for his extraordinary skills, even though he didn't pay all that much attention to it. Honestly, he is a bit of a show off.
Then Moriarty struck again. He broke into the Bank of England and Pentonville Prison via his mobile phone. Apart from this being almost impossible, he didn't take a dime from the vault. His third crime included breaking the bulletproof glass surrounding the crown jewels after having written "Get Sherlock" on, before smashing it, for the surveillance camera to see properly, and seating himself on the throne, crown on his head, sceptre in his hand and the mantle hanging from his shoulders. Just like that, he let himself get arrested. Sherlock was called in to testify the court case. Unsurprisingly, he didn't take my advice on not being the arrogant know-it-all he is. After his testimony, Sherlock left. I stayed to see what the verdict would be. To my shock, he was found not guilty. When I phoned Sherlock to tell him, he didn't seem surprised at all and broke the connection.
In the days that followed, strange cases, including the kidnapped children of the British Ambassador to the US, somehow hinted Sherlock was at least accessary in the crimes. Sergeant Donovan started, but soon many people had seeds of doubt planted inside of them. Doubt, which lead to serious accusations. It was said Sherlock had committed all the crimes himself, only to flawlessly solve the cases afterwards, taking the credit and fame. I knew this wasn't true, but I couldn't help thinking about it anyways. Shortly after, Greg came in. Sherlock refused even before the question was put. They wanted him to come to the station to be interrogated. Sherlock refused to come willingly. I told him he should've just gone with him, because refusing a simple interrogation at the station would cause even more doubt to boil up. At that moment, Sherlock lost it. He yelled at me: "Moriarty's playing with your mind, too, can't you see what's going on!" He went so far he slammed his fist on the table. I was actually scared at the time. I hated it, but perhaps Sherlock hadn't said such an odd thing after all; Somewhere the doubt was nagging me. Not much later Lestrade returned with a team to arrest Sherlock involuntarily. He was cuffed and brought downstairs. The Chief Superintendent came in afterwards and said Sherlock looked a bit like a weirdo, which you see more often in those 'vigilante types'. My anger took over and I punched him right on the nose. I was cuffed and brought downstairs as well. After a short moment Sherlock put an escaping plan in action. First, he distracted the entire force and stole a gun in the fuss. With that gun, he fired two bullets in the air, while ordering all the police to get on their knees, putting the gun against my head afterwards to state I was his hostage. I felt my heart-rate shoot up, as adrenaline rushed from my head to my toes. Next, Sherlock told me we would become fugitives and run.
Everything went downhill from that moment on. The press became more negative by the day, the seeds of doubt grew bigger and bigger. I could see Sherlock slowly being crushed. One journalist, Kitty Riley, wrote about him in a rather nasty way and we decided we'd pay her a visit, to clear thing up a bit, but we did not expect to find him there. Moriarty, but not with the sleek, professional look; he had grown a healthy stubble and his hair was all messy. Both Kitty and Moriarty tried convincing me Sherlock had hired 'Richard Brook' as an actor to play master villain. I couldn't handle the rage building up inside me and yelled at him. He kept defending himself, and Kitty helped, showing us DVD's and articles in magazines, describing the actor and storyteller Richard Brook. The tiny monster of doubt, that had been bothering me for a long while now, had now suddenly grown to an unpleasantly large size, and it was snarling at my heart and idealistic views of Sherlock, ready to tear them apart, inch by inch. Sherlock couldn't speak, he was white as a sheet. I begged him to explain, but not a sound came from the 'once wonderful' Sherlock Holmes. Kitty and the seemingly terrified Moriarty, or was it really the actor Richard Brook Sherlock had hired, only made things worse. Doubt and guilt literally clouded my mind and Sherlock was still on mute. If only I'd known then, what would happen in a matter of days, I would've reacted differently. But I didn't know. I couldn't have known…
To this day I don't forgive myself. It's like a part of my heart was amputated and the remains crushed inside my chest. The heavy pain is unbearable. Every day, the flashback returns. Not one day does my head grant me rest, not one day do my eyes not water until they dry out entirely, not one day does my throat not feel like burning sandpaper. My chest aches so badly day after day. I can't bear going back to 221B Bakerstreet. I don't think I can handle seeing all his stuff. The mess he left behind, piles of unfinished work, the smell of his cologne thinned out throughout the apartment. The only times I see Mrs. Hudson is when we visit the graveyard together, which becomes less and less. She thinks it'll do me good if I limit my visits to once every two weeks, so we do: we go there together and she leaves me there for a while, but makes sure I get home safely. What she doesn't know, however, is that I visit the grave almost daily, crying there for about an hour, talking to his remains, buried deep under the dirt. It seems silly, but I keep doing it.
Today's another day. I take a deep breath as I open the cabinet drawer. As I stare at the weapon it comes back to my retina. The moment he disappeared behind the small house in between me and the hospital. Next, his lifeless body lying there and not even a second later his blood-covered face as he is being turned around. I close my eyes and breathe out through my nose while turning my head sideways, feeling the massive pain in my chest, as though a burning dagger pierced right through my heart, roasting the flesh while puncturing it. I suck in a breath with my nose as I open my eyes again. Without thinking too much about it I pick up the gun, make sure it's loaded and walk to the hall to put on my coat and stuff the pistol in the right pocket. Outside I stop a cab to take me to the cemetery. This might as well be a one-way trip, the last I'll ever make.
Once I arrive, I make my way to one particular stone, placed right next to a tree. 'SHERLOCK HOLMES' it says in simple golden letters on a shiny black stone. I decided I wouldn't have anything else written on it, since not many people know him personally and it wouldn't really matter all that much to them and I knew Sherlock himself wouldn't have cared at all. As usual, I begin by simply touching the headstone, letting out a sigh as memories come back. I can't hold back tears. "Sherlock," my hoarse voice starts, "why? Why would you leave me- all alone?" My breath stopped in my throat and it cut off all the sound. Only now I realise I have sunk down to one knee, supporting myself on the shrine. "Sher- Sherlock, I can't do this, not anymore. Not without you. Even though you piss -pissed- me off loads of times. I'd much rather have that every single day for the rest of my otherwise miserable life, than having to live one more day without you. You have no idea how much you mean -meant- to me." Every time I have to correct myself another 'knife' thrusts into my chest and the tears roll down my cheek. "Ever since we first met- I know I have told you this very often -at least to whatever remains are left- there has been a special something. Something I haven't been able to explain, and to be fair, I still can't. But since it doesn't matter to anyone, why would I still bother trying?" My throat hurts from all the crying and I turn around on the ground, so my back leans against his carved-in name. I throw my head back is despair. "I'm sorry I'm so bad with words today, Sherlock, it seems unfair. I just wanted to let you know," I say softly as I get my gun out of my pocket, "I'm ending it, too. Soon we will be together for ever. I'm sorry. I should be strong, helping others coping with your loss, like a good friend would do, but I feel like I can't do anything but be selfish at this point, even though there wouldn't be a lot of people I could possibly help. So, all in all, this is my note, Sherlock. I can't cope with your loss. I feel it literally tearing me apart." I look down at my upper legs, in which I hold my weapon with both hands, barely seeing anything at all, due to the tears welled up. It's all a big blur and I can barely make out the contour of my pistol in my hands. After blinking away excessive tears, which are replaced immediately, I cock the gun. I let out a painful cry. More and more tears fall down to my now shaking hands. I bring my right hand, which holds the gun, up to my temple, shaking uncontrollably. I feel my entire body shaking, my vision is blurred to a new maximum, the crying sounds my burning throat forms, fade away quickly after they've escaped my mouth and I feel the body-warmed, yet still cold, metal against the side of my face at eye-level. "I'm sorry I'm letting you down, Sherlock, but I can't think of anything else" I whisper. I suck in one last breath. Then suddenly everything stops: "JOHN!" The clouds in my mind are replaced by clear blankness. A blurred figure seems to be running towards me. "John!" he repeats, "put the gun down!" I hesitate, but follow his commands, even though I haven't placed the voice with a face quite yet. "John," he says once more, as he crouches down next to me, taking the gun from my hand, unloading it, "what are you doing?" I can't speak. I can barely move, only shake heavily. I try to catch my breath, but I can't even inhale properly. The man embraces me, but I can't find the energy to lift up my arms to place them around his shoulders, so I just lean my head into his shoulder. It's not as broad and bony as Sherlock's used to be and I can smell his strong cologne, which is also different from Sherlock's. I know it couldn't have been him, but somehow I keep hoping he'll come back. It seems like an eternity before I feel simple shivering replacing the heavy shaking and I can finally breathe regularly again. Only then I realise the voice calming me is Greg's. He takes my shoulders in his hands, stretching out his arms, so he can look me in the eye. He is dead serious and looks very concerned. "How did you get here?" he asks me. I answer him honestly. He continues to help me up, storing my weapon in his own pocket, and leads me to the police car he came in. He makes sure I sit properly, seat belt fastened, before he closes the door of the passenger seat and walks over to the driver's seat, not breaking eye contact with me. I let it all pass, not thinking too much, as we drive to the station, where he sits me down in an empty room. Silently, I let more tears roll down my face, partly thankful tears, partly scared of what I almost did, as the DI boils up water for tea.
After having told him everything Lestrade drives me home. I'm still covered in the shock-blanket he put over my shoulders during the conversation, which mainly consisted of me explaining what I had been planning on doing ever since our best friend's death, and him reacting shocked. When we get to my apartment, Greg opens the front door for me, turns on the lights, helps me get ready for bed and makes sure I lay down well, before he turns off the lights in my room and walks out. I feel my eyelids getting heavier by the second and don't try to resist. Within no-time my surroundings are blocked out of my head.