Day Two:
Still here. Still John Hamish Watson. Still, still. Things are getting ridiculous on the telly so I've shut it off. Stop speculating on why he did it. No one knows, or will ever know his mind. Half of the things I learned about the man I learned by accident. I lived (deletes with him and replaces it with) in the same flat as him for two years and I sometimes felt like I never knew him.
A friend of mine told me to see this as a bit of an opportunity, to write all the things I didn't when (we were still * delete* he was still ali- * delete*When I- * delete*) I didn't have time. I figure I have all the time in the world now. I am admittedly enjoying the lack of body parts in the fridge and the lack of experiments in the microwave. I realize how that may sound, I assure you, as a medical man, it was all for science.
When I'm not on this blog it's all quiet here. Far too quiet. I can't go outside without getting mauled by reporters and groupies so I stay in and resist the impulse to shoot the wall to relieve boredom.
I realize that I must sound heartless when I speak of the convenience of living on my own now. I think it is important for me to say that I would have preferred it if I wasn't. I do miss him, although I haven't said it in exactly those words before. Perhaps I will tell you a little about what it was like to live with Sherlock Holmes. Maybe then you will understand why I find all of this so hard to believe.
I wish you could have seen what I saw every day. If the world knew him as I did, then there would be no question that this was all a huge mistake.
Comments:
You'd better not shoot my bloody wall again John Watson! – Mrs. Hudson
Don't worry Mrs. Hudson I was only being descriptive. –JW
I'd imagine he was hellish to live with –Lestrade.
I can attest to the eyeballs in the microwave – Donovan
I would have lived with him no matter what! – I 3 deerstalkers
You have no idea what you are saying. No idea. – JW
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John pushed back slightly from the desk, carefully, to avoid knocking over his cane. He glanced at the phone, hoping to hear back from St. Bart's about his job interview. He had been forced into it by the need for something to do. He heaved a sigh, trying not to look at the screen anymore. His army revolver was lying next to the laptop. He picked it up, weighing it in his hand. His old, faithful gun, how he wished he could use it. Anything, to relieve the boredom. Anything, please god, just give me something to do so I can avoid thinking. Please, God, let me do anything but think of him.