'Hey Mrs Hudson. I know it's been a year. Since, you know, Sher- since I moved out. It must've been hard for you. Going through that alone. I know you loved him, he was like a son to you. Me too. I mean, I loved him too. But we really weren't together. Although-'
Delete.
'Mrs Hudson. It's John. John Watson. I tried calling, but you must be out. So I thought I should leave a message. A voicemail. This is the voicemail. But you know that. I mean, you must because- never mind'
Delete.
'It's been a year today, since he- Sherlock died. If you loved him as much as I did-do- and I know you did, then you must be dying inside. Because I am. I've just returned from his grave. It's silent as ever. Of course. And... And I needed someone to share my grief. I think you understand. He meant everything to me, Sherlock. And he's gone. And I still can't believe it. I keep thinking he'll come back. To me. I need him. So much. But now... It's been a year. He wouldn't make me wait that long. He wouldn't. So I've finally accepted... He's dead. He's gone.'
My voice broke.
The tears I'd been holding back burnt at my eyelids.
My bitten, quivering fingers hit delete.
I'm sorry, Mrs Hudson. I couldn't call.
