Death of a Consulting Detective

The New Mr. Holmes

October 14, 2013

~ The phone sitting in my hand spewed nonsense from its speakers. What it was telling me couldn't be what Sherlock is saying, it just can't! He must be telling me something else from that rooftop and this bloody thing is saying something different. Like a game of telephone right? "Sherlock-.." I muttered. I stared at the top of Bart's Hospital and focused on the figure standing on the very edge. His long coat flapped in the wind and I could just point out the blue scarf wrapped around his neck. "Goodbye John.." No. No Sherlock please. Shit! The blue scarf, the long coat, and the tall man fell along the side of the building. He looked a lot like a bird, but with no wings to save him from the ground closing in. Just as he passed the second floor of the hospital a stupid man on a bicycle knocked me down leaving me a little disoriented. There was a large thud not too far away from me and I knew immediately what it was. This can't be happening. Maybe he saved himself at the last minute. Maybe- I got to my feet; my head still spinning and the first thing I saw was the blue scarf stained with dark red. "Sherlock!" ~
I bolted upright; red still covered all of my surroundings. Little beads of sweat rolled down the sides of my head and my breaths were shaky. It was the fifth time this week that I've been woken up by this bloody dream. It all still feels real. He'll fall every night off that damned building and the dream ends with me screaming the name of the dead friend lying in front of me. I rubbed at my eyes and looked at the time on my alarm clock. 4:00 a.m. I have an appointment to see my old therapist at 10:00, which is six hours away. One thing's for sure, I sure as hell am not going back to sleep. It'll haunt me throughout the day to see his face one more time.

~

"So, John, it's been awhile. Why come to see me now?" my therapist asked.
She sat across from me and a small notebook rested in her lap. I can still read whatever she writes down about me, it's sort of a bad habit I've developed.

"You've seen the papers. You know what happened." I muttered.

"Yes, I have. So this is all about-.."

"Please don't say his name. Please."

"You should say it at some point John. Tell me what happened."

"I'd rather not. I can't talk about it yet."

"Fair enough. Anyway what made you schedule an appointment?"

"I've been having..nightmares. About him. And they've just been getting worse."

"So you two were rather close then right? Now he's gone leaving you with nothing to do."

"I guess you could put it that way. But it's even more than just having nothing to do, you see." I paused for a moment because I was physically unable to go any farther. There was a huge lump in my throat and I understand the phrase swallow your pride now more than ever.

"Then what is it John? What's bothering you so much?"

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. I want her to stop and ask me how my leg is doing or how Ms. Hudson is. But she wouldn't stop; she kept pushing and pushing until I would finally explain to her why I'm so upset about him.

"John?"

"..."

"John!"

"Alright! I miss him, okay?! He decided to launch himself off a bloody building as I watched! He was there then he was on the ground! He didn't think of Mycroft, Lestrade, Ms. Hudson, and he certainly didn't think about me! He was so selfish and he just took his damn life away from me as I stood their pleading with him to stop! I'm pissed off that he ignored me, I'm pissed off that his coat wasn't a set of wings so he could fly to safety, I'm pissed off! I grieved!! And I miss him so bloody much it hurts! Sherlock Holmes is dead and I can't do anything about it but grieve!"