[New blog post: Dr John H Watson]
Met a girl today. Her name is Mary. Trying to start again.
[New blog post: Dr John H Watson]
Ella wants me to still blog. Don’t know what to write. So quiet nowadays
Bill Murray: You okay, mate?
[New blog post: Dr John H Watson]
I’m going to get married.
Jacob Sowersby: Congrats mate!
Mrs H: How lovely! Glad you’re moving on. Am I invited?
John Watson: Nothing to move on from. Of course, Mrs Hudson. How can I forget you?
Harry Watson: You are allowed to be happy, you know.
John Watson: I am.
Harry Watson: No you’re not.
‘ You have 4 new voicemails’ :
-‘Hi, John, this is Ella, I need you to get back to me. You haven’t turned up to the last 8 therapy sessions you’re due for, I need you to let me know what’s going on-‘
-‘Mycroft speaking. Just want to check on how you’re doing. Call back immediately.’
-‘Hey, it’s Mary, where were you last night? I missed you. You haven’t been yourself lately, I’m getting worried. Is it this wedding stuff? Is it too much? Call me back, and we can talk-‘
‘Hi, Its Greg- okay, I got a weird call from a mate down in the police station near strand, he told me that they had to give you as warning for refusing to move from the edge of the bridge? John, what’s going on? Is this about…Sherlock? It’s been a while now, mate. Call me back AS-‘
‘Hi, you’ve reached Greg Lestrade’s phone, I’m not here right now, so leave a message, unless you’re Sherlock, in which case, piss off.’
‘It’s John. I’m fine. It was a misunderstanding. I was just looking at something. Change your voicemail.’
To: Sherlock Holmes
You are cordially invited to the wedding of
Mary Elizabeth Morstan
John Hamish Watson
On Tuesday afternoon
January 2nd, 4 p.m
[RECIPIENT DOES NOT LIVE AT THIS ADDRESS. RETURN TO SENDER]
[New blog post: John H Watson]
I’m not coping.
Harry Watson: John, I’m coming over. This has gone on long enough. It’s not fair on Mary. Stay where you are.
John Watson: after all this time, now you care?
Molly Hooper: John, can I come see you sometime? Please?
Prescription: John H Watson
Fluoxetine (60 tablets)
Take two tablets a day.
221B Bakers Street
It must be peaceful where you are now. Or is it? I’m inclined to think its not, or you’d go mad, and it would be Hell. Maybe you are in Hell- who knows? Wherever you are, if it wasn’t insane, chaotic and hellish before, it would be now.
I’d love to come and visit some day.
Today is my wedding day, you know. I can imagine what you would say to that:‘The institution of marriage is simply a farce in order to mould the race into poorly designed constraints in order to create the only exception of the rule in the animal kingdom and thereby satisfy human nature’s need to constantly dominate all other beings by being incomparable’, you’d say. Or something of the sort.
I won’t ask you to come. I know you wouldn’t, even if you weren’t…gone, because something inside you fights against me ever showing any type of open humanity. From ever showing you, proving to you, that I’m just an idiot, like everyone else.
I miss that, I do, I miss that about you. I miss you thinking I’m something special, when everyday without you tells me I’m not.
You might’ve liked her though. Mary- my fiancé. She’s…like you in ways, and in other ways the most complete opposite of you I could ever have found. She’s…vivacious. Curious about the world, and has an even more curious smile. But not curious enough to wonder why I proposed to her after seeing that Mrs Hudson has been trying to rent out 221B again. In a way, she’s my perfect match. She’s the only woman I’ve met who I can talk to about you and not have me deemed as ‘unstable’. She’s my perfect match, because she isn’t YOU, and she doesn’t try to be.
Because no one can ever be you. I can still hear your voice- in my head, that is. I fear I’m turning borderline schizophrenic, but I don’t think I care, if it means I don’t lose the sweet glory of knowing you, in any form that may come. I can still smell you, you know, in my head- the acrid burn of sulphuric acid that you split on your shirt, the earthiness of soil you analysed and wedged into your fingernails, the smell of your ridiculously expensive and sharp shampoo that makes my eyes sting. I can still see you, the childish chocolate curls bouncing up and down when you fiercely scratch your head, the all too fragile ice-pale line of your throat convulsing, swallowing every insult you ever received. Just the memory of it all makes me think sometimes that you’re still out there, somewhere.
The image fades everyday, but I never forget the blood gushing out of your head, through your limp hair and your throat that day. The bastard and best friend that you are- you ARE- means that that image will remain with me as long as I live. As long as I choose to live.
I’ll never meet you again, will I? Not even in Hell, if it exists, if it’s up there. There’s was only ever meant to be one of you. Because when you were made, God realised he’d made a mistake, but decided to pretend you never happened and let you exist anyways. Until he realised how much trouble you were, and took you away from me.
I’m the one that was made to be perfect but turned out to be more flawed than God’s mistake.
I’m not so lucky or unlucky that I’d ever met another one of you. No one can match the sheer ridiculousness you managed to make my life, and make me love it, cherish it all the same.
I’ll never have that again.
Sometimes I wish I never met you. Sometimes, SOMETIMES, I look at Mike Stamford, and I want to murder him for bringing me to you. But I was so alone, Sherlock, so lonely, and you made me feel like I was someone worth living again. I’m the one that walked into the lab at St Barts, that day 2 and something years ago that changed my life- but really, the moment you looked up at me, you somehow managed to walk into my head, you and that devastatingly beautiful coat, and all my barriers disappeared.
How can you do that to me, you selfish bastard? You ruined me that day, by bringing me back to life. You made me care, made me LOVE again, when you declared to the world that you’re incapable of that. It’s not fair.
I’m so alone, Sherlock. I’m getting married today, and I’m so alone.
I keep waiting for you to come in here, Sherlock, and tell me that I’m an idiot, and that I must not get married and come back to 221B and look, there’s 4 dead women and a man in Canterbury whose deaths look suspicious, let’s go now, John, call a taxi-
How DARE you die. You’re Sherlock Holmes, you aren’t meant to die. You have the British Government for a brother, Scotland Yard as your bitch, and me somewhere in that awful equation. How dare you die? How dare you.
Mary’s dad is calling me now. I’m at the post office across the street from the hotel I’m supposed to be getting married in, cars speeding past so very fast. I imagine the smooth metal against my skin, the thick, dull thud it would make.
I’m late for my own wedding.
Harry’s yelling from across the street, looking at me like she thinks I’m going to do A Sherlock, as she calls it now. I would call it Visiting Sherlock. It’s not Death, it’s not the ‘Fear Of The Unknown’ if you’re dying, drowning in the world you’re in. It’s not Life or ‘Living’ if the one thing you need isn’t in it.
To me, Sherlock, right now? Life is me slowly suffocating in the air that I breathe. Because you’re not breathing it, and if it’s not good enough for you, it’s not good enough for me.
Because that’s our friendship, isn’t it, Sherlock? Where you go, I go. Where I go, you go.
So I’m coming to you. Mary’s staring at me now. From the hotel. She looks beautiful, even you would’ve thought so. She’s not saying anything, but she doesn’t have her curious smile anymore. Like she understands. God knows, I need someone that would understand. I think she will be thankful, later, that I went to you now- before our marriage- that later when she would be a widow.
Harry’s screaming. No more screaming. No more blood. No more broken skulls and dulled eyes and rigid skin and damp childish curls that bounce when you scratch your head.
I hope you get this letter soon. I need you to make some tea when I arrive, because it’s probably going to be a long journey. I know you never make tea, Sherlock, but just this once, and I promise I won’t complain about the people you’ve tormented up there.
I’ll never complain again. That makes me more happy that you know. Because I want this. I want you.
Harry is crying. She shouldn’t be crying. Her brother’s happy now.
Aren’t you happy, Sherlock?
I don’t want to be alone anymore. With us together, we’ll never be lonely again.
See you soon,
[RECIPEIENT DOES NOT LIVE AT ADDRESS. RE-DIRECTED TO: MYCROFT HOLMES].
[REDIRECTED FROM: MYCROFT HOLMES TO NEW ADDRESS: SHERLOCK HOLMES].