June 20, 2012
Goodbye.
As some of you might know, today I said my final goodbye to my colleague, flatmate but most of all best friend, Sherlock Holmes. I'd like to start off with thanking you all for your kind words and condolences, it means a lot.
The day started off early. I hadn't slept all night, again. I haven't been sleeping very well in the passed few days. Nightmares seems to be haunting me and it's post-Afghanistan all over again. The weather seemed to match my mood of today. It was pouring down and grey outside even though I swear I saw a peek of sunshine, at some point.
I knew it wouldn't be an easy one. Mycroft came over early and Mrs. Hudson made a nice kettle of tea for the three of us. Tea solved everything, but not this. Not this empty hole sucking in every but of life I have left. Mycroft of course babbled on about the more practical parts of this all. I asked him if I could keep Sherlock's coat, but he refused. He said it would damage more than it would cure. As if anything could cure the emptiness Sherlock left.
I still feel like I am living on automatic pilot. As if things hadn't sunk in yet. But they are, slowly but certainly. I try to push it away, try to deny that what I've seen that morning is just a bad dream and I'll soon enough wake up from it. But I won't. This bad dream has now became my life.
The funeral started at 10.30AM. There weren't many people. Sherlock wasn't exactly Mr. Popular, I have to admit. Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft and I. And some people Sherlock had done a favour. I stared, stared the whole thing through. Words passed me by, they didn't reach through. But I remember everything said inside that church. Kind words came from people's lips, words they would have never dare to say in Sherlock's presence. I guess that's how it goes, once you're dead, suddenly people aren't afraid to confess how they really felt about someone. They regret they never told those people. I regret I never told Sherlock how I truly felt about him.
Outside the church a bunch of journalist had lined up. Of course all were hoping for a painful one liner coming from my lips. But I refused. I couldn't give them that, not after the horrible things they assumed Sherlock had done. They don't even know him. No one knows him like I had.
Silently Mrs. Hudson and I drove to the graveyard. You could tell she had been crying but fixed her make-up afterwards. I guess those times working and living did allow me to deduce some simple things. And I find myself doing so a lot of the time. I see the obvious now, the things I would have overlooked, unless Sherlock pointed them out to me.
As I stared at the name carefully engraved into the shiny black gravestone, I finally felt myself giving in. I felt every emotion, I felt. I hadn't cried, not until that point. I wished, begged for a miracle. One more miracle. Hell, I don't even need a miracle, I just need Sherlock. I need to hear his low voice as he mumbles some rude comment. I need to feel his eyes pinning mine, I need to hear him play the violin at 4.30AM in the morning.
And now I need a cup of tea. It has been a rough day and I'm certain the night will be any better. Once more I'd like to thank you all for your kind words. It means a lot.
John Watson.
Goodbye.
As some of you might know, today I said my final goodbye to my colleague, flatmate but most of all best friend, Sherlock Holmes. I'd like to start off with thanking you all for your kind words and condolences, it means a lot.
The day started off early. I hadn't slept all night, again. I haven't been sleeping very well in the passed few days. Nightmares seems to be haunting me and it's post-Afghanistan all over again. The weather seemed to match my mood of today. It was pouring down and grey outside even though I swear I saw a peek of sunshine, at some point.
I knew it wouldn't be an easy one. Mycroft came over early and Mrs. Hudson made a nice kettle of tea for the three of us. Tea solved everything, but not this. Not this empty hole sucking in every but of life I have left. Mycroft of course babbled on about the more practical parts of this all. I asked him if I could keep Sherlock's coat, but he refused. He said it would damage more than it would cure. As if anything could cure the emptiness Sherlock left.
I still feel like I am living on automatic pilot. As if things hadn't sunk in yet. But they are, slowly but certainly. I try to push it away, try to deny that what I've seen that morning is just a bad dream and I'll soon enough wake up from it. But I won't. This bad dream has now became my life.
The funeral started at 10.30AM. There weren't many people. Sherlock wasn't exactly Mr. Popular, I have to admit. Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft and I. And some people Sherlock had done a favour. I stared, stared the whole thing through. Words passed me by, they didn't reach through. But I remember everything said inside that church. Kind words came from people's lips, words they would have never dare to say in Sherlock's presence. I guess that's how it goes, once you're dead, suddenly people aren't afraid to confess how they really felt about someone. They regret they never told those people. I regret I never told Sherlock how I truly felt about him.
Outside the church a bunch of journalist had lined up. Of course all were hoping for a painful one liner coming from my lips. But I refused. I couldn't give them that, not after the horrible things they assumed Sherlock had done. They don't even know him. No one knows him like I had.
Silently Mrs. Hudson and I drove to the graveyard. You could tell she had been crying but fixed her make-up afterwards. I guess those times working and living did allow me to deduce some simple things. And I find myself doing so a lot of the time. I see the obvious now, the things I would have overlooked, unless Sherlock pointed them out to me.
As I stared at the name carefully engraved into the shiny black gravestone, I finally felt myself giving in. I felt every emotion, I felt. I hadn't cried, not until that point. I wished, begged for a miracle. One more miracle. Hell, I don't even need a miracle, I just need Sherlock. I need to hear his low voice as he mumbles some rude comment. I need to feel his eyes pinning mine, I need to hear him play the violin at 4.30AM in the morning.
And now I need a cup of tea. It has been a rough day and I'm certain the night will be any better. Once more I'd like to thank you all for your kind words. It means a lot.
John Watson.
