"But you went away. How dare you? I miss you. They say I'll be okay, but I'm not going to." - Miranda Lambert
Have you ever relived one moment of your life, word for word. And each time it was as if it was happening for the first time. You must have one moment. And if you don't, perhaps you're not old enough or life hasn't hit you yet. But I have a moment, and it haunts me every day and every night.
Every morning, when I wake up in the Baker Street apartment, I expect to hear the detective conducting some experiment in the kitchen. But I don't. I only hear the sound of my beating heart pounding after a vivid memory in the form of a nightmare. Visual segments of him standing on the roof, his hand stretched out to stop me from advancing, still plays clearly in my head. I can still hear his shaking voice -- his crying voice -- as he leaves me his final words. Then, I soon hear my own voice, screaming his name. And I wake up, shaking.
I can try to explain how much it hurts to lose a friend-- but it won't make any sense to you if you haven't experienced it yourself. My therapist nods her head and tells me to write about it, but what does she know? The closest thing she's ever lost is her childhood cat-- she won't understand my loss. Of course, I'm a soldier. I've seen death. I've smelled death. What makes the loss of the detective different from the wounded? In the simpliest words, he was my best mate. There was no, and is no, man higher than Sherlock Holmes.
I've deleted my old blog -- the one I started when I first started working with Sherlock. I first thought that I shouldn't, but it's only a haunting memory of things that were and will never be again. But, as you can see, I started a new one. God, I'm reading this as I type -- I wonder if there's anyone else who cares as deeply as I do for Sherlock? I know Mrs. Hudson mentions his name a couple of times when she finds a missing article of his clothing, or severed appendages in the icebox, but other than that, I think she knows it hurts me to talk about him.
Molly Hooper doesn't talk to me much about Sherlock, and when she does, I get the impression that she doesn't want me speak about him, especially when I ask if there was anyway to save him. Lestrade and the others act as if he'd never existed. They don't hire me for any cases, and even if I offer my services, they politely decline or suggest a more mild position in the forces. Though, I badly want a case. Sherlock would take on a case to distract himself from boredom, I simply need a case to distract myself from him.
I suppose what I want the most is a solid ending to our friendship. He left so abruptly with many unanswered questions that I feel unsatisfied, angry, and hopeless. And I know I can't live each day with this disposition, but Sherlock gave me this piece I never knew I had until I watched him die. Oh God, it happened so fast. So fast. Did he not stop to think how it would effect others? But what can I say? He was always a selfish sod.
To close this entry, I can firmly conclude that I still believe in Sherlock. And that somewhere, either in this world or the other, he's alive.