Sherlock,
How the days have crawled on since you have died. I wake up, swallow a small morsel of food and some coffee, sit down in my chair and just stay there, glancing at your chair, watching your impression slowly fade away. I'm dead, Sherlock. I'm gone. I sometimes gather up enough strength to leave the house and go down to the café but all I do is sit there, coffee mug loosely held in my hand and I just think; I think of what I lost, of what I no longer have, of you. Oh dear… Call me deranged, call me obsessed, call me whatever but I think of you so much. It's been many weeks, and it hurts to stay in that flat sometimes. All your things are in boxes now and you're gone. How long are you going to keep this up?! You can't be dead… Please, please come home Sherlock. Stop this, stop it now. I wake up in the middle of the night screaming, shouting… The pain, the hole in my chest grows day by day and nothing, no one is there to fill it anymore. Mycroft came by the other day and I wept. All my pride is gone, all my dignity has fallen away from me and all is left of John Watson is a sad man with an aching heart and deflated soul. I scream, and scream for someone to wake me from this never-ending nightmare. Why will no one wake me up? Why won't you wake me up, Sherlock! I'm scared, so scared. No war can prepare me for this, no amount of gunfire can shake me like this did, and no amount of death and crush me like yours did. You're in my veins and I can't get you out. I've been sleeping in your room for a while now, taking in your fading smell, feeling your forever distant presence. I lie there and cry at night, I sob and ask the empty air, "Where are you?! Why did you leave me? I need someone… Anyone.". Aren't I a sad little man? Sometimes my chest hurts after I sit here, thinking about the life I see ahead of me. Without you, where's the fun? Where's the insane laughter? Where are the visits to Buckingham Palace in bed sheets stealing ashtrays?
You know what I got today? I got your things from the hospital. Your clothes, your valuables… They didn't bother cleaning them and the blood is still there. We're meant to bury you soon… Your clothes… I have no bloody idea what to do with them. Keep them in the flat? Ha, that would hurt too much. I'm already going slightly insane from all this. My shrink is calling me hysteric. How will I bury you? How will I stand there knowing you're in the coffin… Dead. I wish I could hug you, you know? Hug you and show you that I do care. I would have been dead without you; dead on the inside like I am now. You cured me, and I cured you and now, what?! What can I do?! Where can I go…? I'm lost now, Sherlock. I see a black future, an empty life, a tunnel with no end and no light. I just see myself looking back trying to find you, getting more and more lost, twisting deeper into a dark maze that will ensnare me and not let me out. Stuck in the dark pit-less hole forever… Well not forever, I'll see you again someday. If you really, truly are dead, then I'll see you when I'll die. I smile when I think of dying and seeing you, Sherlock. Dying and seeing you and your bouncy curls up there, you and your long coat, deductions and hearing your deep voice and hearty laugh. Being with you and finally being able to tell you what you meant to me, and saying, "Sorry you had to wait so long for me. I came as fast as life would let me go." and for you to say, "Oh do stop being so emotional! Come on, I have some people with fascinating cases on their death. I've been lost without my blogger, and now you're back we can solve crimes again once more!" and to grin at me as we would stride off and be there, the duo, once more. I dream of this…
Can I say it now? Can I say, can I write, what I've been holding on to since I met you? Sherlock Holmes…. I… No. It hurts so much! The pain, Sherlock; the pain, it beats through me like a current and it won't stop. It won't end! It won't shut up, the voice in my head saying; you'll never be able to tell him what he meant to you. Never, never, never… Can I shut it off? Can you come shut it off for me?
CAN'T YOU JUST BLOODY OME BACK? STOP IT NOW; STOP PRETENDING YOU'RE DEAD BECAUSE YOU'RE NOT. YOU'RE NOT, you're not… My throat hurts from screaming, Sherlock. It aches, like everything else does.