Screw the dear journal shit today. That bastard is alive! That son of bitch! I hit him, you know. I just couldn’t believe it. After I processed he was real and not a hallucination in my damn weakest bloody moment of time. Hell, I didn’t believe it was him until he actually ripped the blasted gun from my hands.
After he popped me up side the head like the hypocrite he is, I just exploded. Once his blood… once his blood was on my knuckles, I stopped. I froze actually. He didn’t say anything. Not a word. He just waited until my fit was done.
God. Why? That’s all I want to know. Just why? Sherlock crushed my very being when he faked his death. My chest still hurts. It’s still hard to breathe. This is something I can’t just get over, like a forgotten holiday or even a broken wrist. I thought I had lost the whole of my being and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t find it again.
That’s what he bloody did to me.
But, even after all of that, I can’t hate him. I couldn’t even fathom it.
I mean, I’m not speaking to him right now. That bastard can stew for a bit. After all that, I could still give him a good kick. I should give him a good kick. Damn how I would love to give him a good kick. He just makes my blood boil!
You know, I’m going to give him a call. Give him a piece of my mind.
No. never mind. Calling just to yell is so pointless and he never answers his phone.
I’m going to go over there. Yup.
Forever going to bring this up,
John Watson