One More Miracle

6 • Final

It's been six months since he did it.

I've spent six whole months without him, and to be honest my life had just gone downhill. It's ridiculous how much I must have depended on him, how bigger hole he's left in my life now that he's gone.

For six whole months I've moped around, alone. I've barely done anything. I wish that there could have been some way that I could have felt better so that I cared enough or felt motivated enough to do something.Anything at all. But for some reason, I couldn't. I feel disgusted with myself, I don't even want to help people, and that's all I had ever wanted to do with my life from being a little kid.

I have no job, no friends around, I've become pretty much totally isolated in that flat; I don't eat or sleep. And, the worst thing, I didn't really care about any of this. The only thing, still, that I care about is him. Sherlock- god, it really shouldn't still hurt like this to say his name. I only care that he is gone, that I will never see him again, I can no longer feel his presence anymore, not in the flat, not at the graveyard, not at Angelo's, not in the morgue or any of the other places I'd tried (hell, I even went to Mycroft's- i.e. the house he and Sherlock had grown up in in an attempt to feel that he was there). I was just so desperate, and I still am, to feel Sherlock's presence somewhere, to get the feeling that I was communicating with him; that I was just that tiniest bit closer to him.

I wish there was something I could do , that there was some way for me to 'cheer up', but that's not going to happen. It's been six whole months, and since then I haven't felt one tiny ounce of happiness. No matter what I did, even all of the things that used to bring me so much comfort and joy didn't work they just seemed to be so pointless and empty now.

I sit up in bed, where I'd been laying staring at the ceiling, and pull open the bedside draw, nesting there is m yLK Browning L9A1. The same gun that I shot the cabbie with- to save him. That seems almost like a fruitless effort now, seen as he killed himself, but of course if that had been the case I would have missed out on so much. To have done that I would have had to have been a completely different person, and I knew that there was no way that I could have let him be killed by that man, or in fact take the pill that would have killed him just to prove that he was smarter than some old guy with a brain aneurism.

But that was him. Sherlock would do anything to prove his genius.

Sherlock would do so much to show that he's smarter than everyone else- because he was. And unlike another child in his place when he was younger, this genius wasn't nurtured and praised-but ignored, so that he was left to explore it all by himself, leading to disastrous consequences. He was left in a school far below his abilities, so he began to look for these things himself, look for the excitement, something that would stop the boredom. That, and the need for appreciation caused but his neglectful parents-which led to the constant bullying- was the real cause of his death.

The gone was resting on top of a few notes I'd made, silly things really, the time Ella had told me to 'get it out', to talk to him, the time I had actually gone and said all these things was very different from what I'd actually wanted to say.

Sherlock,

You were such a brave, addictive man. You never feared going to danger if you though it would bring some evidence, that it would help you catch a villain. And that made you a true hero, despite the things you told me before, you were, and always will be, a real hero.

I called you a machine, and I know that isn't true. You were utterly and completely human, but the truth is, Sherlock, you were the most human...human being. To tell you the truth, you were the best man I have ever met.