I look upon the sky, it is clear blue. I swallow hard. There is a lump in my throat; it has been there since the day, the day which broke me. The day Sherlock decided to commit suicide. Everyone tells me that he was a fraud. But I can’t believe them. I know he was real. How could he have been anything else?
I walk along Bakerstreet captured by my own thoughts. I’ve been so clumsy lately. I constantly stumble over things or walk into people. I guess I don’t want to see the world around me. It is a world without Sherlock, and therefore it is nothing worth.
My friends have tried to comfort me; they have tried to help me get on with my life. But they don’t understand they don’t understand that it is impossible for me to just accept that he is gone. He saved me, and now when he is gone, I really feel the need for rescuing again. I guess we became a hybrid living in a symbiotic relationship. We needed each other. I still need him.
Almost every day I visit his grave burial. Harry thinks I am going crazy, maybe I am. I see him everywhere. I see him in the bus, in the underground, at the streets. But it never is him. Just people he resembles. People who in a special light look like him. People who has characteristics cheekbones or bear long coats.
Every time I stand by his gravestone I ask him the same thing, no I don’t ask him, I beg him, I beg of him to return to me because I can’t work missing a part of myself. Nothing ever happens. Nothing appears from beyond the grave. What could happen? He is dead and the only things which are left for me are a flat and a cold stone. A stone can’t answer me, a flat can’t comfort me. It is not a surprise that I feel like I have fallen into a nightmare. Suddenly I find myself wishing ghost stories were true. I guess I am what people calls a broken man.
The worst part is that his face has begun to fade. It is hard for me to remember how he exactly looks, and it frightens me, all the details are blurred. Maybe someday I will have forgotten him completely, and I will only be able to remember him by pictures. His voice is almost gone I can’t recall it anymore, only sometimes in my dreams. In my dreams he occurs, but when that happens he is misty, shining and transparent like a ghost. He talks to me but I can’t find any sense in his words. I try to catch him, but he vanishes between my fingers, and then I find him. But it is to late every time, I always end up finding him crushed on the ground, like that day. That day he jumped. These dreams, how dark they may seem, is the closest I can get to him. The closest I ever will get to him again. God, I miss him.
Lestrade has tried to comfort me. He visited me a lot in the beginning, but then he realized that it didn’t matter. That he could not make a difference. He still calls me though, and I try, I really try to act if I am okay, but I know he knows that I am not. Mrs. Hudson has tried as well. First she tried to make me come back to the flat, but I declined. I wanted to, but I knew I couldn’t bear it. The only one who has not tried is Molly. I think she avoids me. Why? I don’t know. Maybe it is hard for her to see me, maybe I remind her of him, and like me she is in a deep sorrow unable to deal with the realities of life.
Socializing with other people has become something I have to act me through. Life has become the dream, and my blurry dreams have become my reality, cause in my dreams he still exists.
I am in front of the flat now; it’s been months since I’ve been here. I still got a key though. I can feel my gun under my clothes. It is comforting knowing it is there. I open the door. Mrs. Hudson is not home, I made sure of that. It shocks me how the flat is exactly how before he died. It is like he suddenly could come through the front door. But I know he won’t. He is gone. I have given up, I know I never will be able to handle this. So why should I even try to bear it?
I sit down in one of the chairs. I close my eyes and try to inhale the atmosphere of the flat; I try to inhale the time before he died, before he left me. As I sit there I can suddenly feel his fingers against my skin. I can imagine him there, in front of me. But when I open my eyes there is nothing in front me, it was just my imagination playing tricks with me.
People always assumed things about us. Now I think they saw what I could not. Irene said it directly to me. I curse myself for not listening.
“Sherlock”, I whisper into the room, but no one answers, of course. I take my gun, with a strong move I throw it as hard as can. It hits the skull on the mantelpiece. The skull rambles to the floor and breaks into two pieces. The jaw forever separated from the upper head. It looks ridiculous, just like me.
I look at the broken skull a bit confused, if Sherlock knew he would hate me for it, but he will never know because he is dead. I still think about him in present tense, it really is a bit annoying. I cannot accept his dead, I cannot understand it.
I considered shooting myself, I considered following him to wherever he is now with the help from a bullet, but I couldn’t do it like that. At first it was just a small thought in the back of my head, but then it became stronger. The day I realized I couldn’t remember his voice I made my decision. I need to dream about him one last time. So I have brought some pills, they lay heavily in my pocket together with a small hope of seeing him again. I just have to do one last thing before I swallow them, because I won’t have Mrs. Hudson finding me. I tuck my mobile from my pocket and I write a short message to Lestrade. I know he will be here fast. Mrs. Hudson won’t be home in three hours or so. I take the pills from my pocket. I know it will hurt them all. I know they will think they could have prevented, but they really couldn’t. I couldn’t prevent him from jumping; they can’t keep me away from this my last dream. I go into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water. Then I put the pills into my mouth and take a sip from the glass and swallows, it really is quite easy. It’ll take some time. First I’ll fall asleep and then my dreams will end together with my life. I go towards the couch. I lay myself on it, focusing on the roof. I send the message, and close my eyes waiting for my dreams. A peaceful fog lowers around me. I want to see him. He suddenly stands as clear as ever in front of me. I walk over to him. This time he isn’t transparent. He glows with a strange light though, or is it just my eyes failling. I lift my hand and caress his chin. I let my fingers follow the lines of his face. I want to consume him with my eyes. He is so clear, so many details. My hand wanders to his neck. He looks at me; he’s never looked at me like that before, never in real life. I lean in and I kiss him. It is just a dream, my last dream. His lips against mine, hard, soft, warm, cold.
“John, John you idiot what have you done?” I smile when I recognize the voice. Why am I at the couch? I can’t see his face though. My sight is filled with fog. I am dizzy and can’t focus, but I recognize his voice. “Sherlock”, I whisper through dry lips, this seems more real, “am I dead?”
He shakes me by my shoulders, mumbling something about him being able to check Lestrade’s phone, but I don’t understand, how can he check a phone when he is dead? He calls me an idiot. I can’t find sense in his words. Is he glad or angry over the kiss? I try to ask him, but the words won’t come. I feel heavy, slow, tired, happy.
“God John what have you taken? John please wake up!” his hands are firm. “John”, his voice is thick now. He lays his head against mine; I can feel his tears on my cheeks. His lips against my chin, he calls my name. I want to comfort him, I whisper something I think, but I can’t hear my own words. In the distance a siren. He sobs. I don’t understand. Why is he sad? What is there to be sad about? We are together now.