I can’t help but wonder if he’d mourn me so, if I were to walk out the door and never come back. By my own design, or someone else’s, it doesn’t matter. If I simply didn’t come home one day, what would he do?
He moons over that woman, as though they’d been together for the whole of their lives. I doubt, very much, I’d warrant a blip in his daily routine. I figure it would go something like this: Oh, John’s gone? Who will listen to me talk about how brilliant I am now? And then he’d go back to carrying the skull around with him and I’d be deleted from his Mind Palace, as though I’d never existed.
Why can’t the bloody man see what’s right in front of his face? Why can’t he see me? If he’s so sodding clever can’t he see that it hurts me, the way he’s carrying on about her? Doesn’t he understand that I care about him? That I’d do -- have done -- anything for him? I’d barely known him when I killed a man for him, because right from the first, I felt a connection with him. Something I can’t even describe, though I’ve tried often enough to put a name to it.
I can’t stand to be in the flat with him. Barely come home, because I can’t take hearing that damn violin playing mournful tunes for a woman who doesn’t deserve them. I want to bash it over his head. I want to punch him in the face. I want him to look at me and not be wishing it were her standing here in my stead.
But, I know those things will never happen. We’ll go back to just the same as we always were. The great Sherlock Holmes and his stupid, faithful sidekick Watson. I’ll keep dating an endless stream of women, never being able to give myself to them completely because I’m not a whole person anymore, not since I met him. It’s hard to give all of yourself when someone else owns all the best parts.
He’ll continue to mourn her for a while, until something more interesting distracts him. He’ll take me for granted, use me, put my life in danger, degrade me and insult my intelligence and I’ll take it all, as I always have.
Until one day I won’t. That day will come, the day I’m strong enough to walk out onto Baker Street, give one last look over my shoulder at the only place that ever really felt like home and keep walking, never to return.
How long will it take for him to notice I’ve gone? A day? A week? A month? Will he ever even notice at all?
God, I hate the wallowing sad sack wanker I’ve become. Maybe today’s a good day for a walk. A long walk, far away from Sherlock Holmes and his brilliant mind and his heart that belongs to someone else.
Where is my coat?