I thought it was getting better.
The psychiatrist thought it was getting worse.
"You're not supposed to see him, John. And now you're talking to him??", she'd reproached.
To which I'd replied-not out loud, of course-that it was a thousand times better for my fragmented sanity to be able to speak to Sherlock Holmes, rather than to see him linger at every corner, eyes burning with an accusing fury: Why didn't you save me?
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sherlock shift in the empty chintz armchair beside Ella, rolling his eyes.
"Really, John, are we still under the delusion that you had any control over my death? How tedious."
I glared.
"Of course not, Holmes. But I thought I had some control over your life. I thought I had given you enough to live for."
He looked away, perturbed. I saw this as an opportunity to further divulge my innermost ponderings to a figment of my own imagination.
"You gave me enough to live for. You thought I lived off the adrenaline, the high. You were wrong. I lived off you. Because if I went into service now, I wouldn't be doing it in hope that I returned happy. I wouldn't hope to return at all. You were my buoy. Without you, I am drowning."
"I am right here."
"But you're not, are you? I wish you were, so you follow me everywhere. Only it doesn't feel right. Because I was the one who followed you. And now I'm wandering and I'm dragging you, your memory, with me."
"But it's better this way. Better than not having me at all."
I wish I could say no. I wish I could stop being selfish.
"Yes."
"Then I will stay. For as long as you need me, for better or for worse, I will stay."
