The end is here!
Tell me what you think!
That was the last time we were together, at least sexually. The very last time. It had to be the last time, because my best friend, the incredible Sherlock Holmes, was dead. I am sorry to say that my collection of erotic stories from my relationship with the sleuth ended with that one. I am sorry to say that the gorgeous man I loved died without knowing. He told me he was a fake. He told me "no one could be that clever." I wanted to mention all the things we'd done together, all the intimacy we'd shared, but in my fear, nothing could escape me. My throat was closed except to protest. "No, Sherlock. Don't!" was the last thing I said to him.
"Goodbye, John," were his last words. He lingered on his mobile for a second, and I gazed at him, open-mouthed. I felt sick. "I love you!" my heart screamed, but my voice wouldn't work. Everything had shut down.
And then he fell. It was incredible how fast it was. I thought it would be slower, thought I'd have time to reach him. But there was no time. Our time was lost. Everything was lost. My love was gone. My life was over.
Yet life moves on around the body when its light leaves it. I reached out to him, to feel his pulse. His wrist was warm. His skin was soft. His eyes were still vibrant, but expressionless. Lines of blood marred his stunning face. Hands were grabbing at me, pulling me away. I was shaking. Everything seemed to move by me in a haze. I wanted to slip my hand into his, to hold him, to kiss his white mouth from which a dribble of blood had ebbed. But the hands of strangers kept me away. I was numb. He was my friend, he was my lover, he was my whole world, and I needed him, but no one would let me near his body. He was lifted and wheeled away before my mind had processed any of it. My Sherlock-my love-was rolling away from me. I watched his limp arm, which dangled over the edge of the wheeler, disappear behind crowds of people seeing if I was alright. No, I was not alright, but I couldn't say that. I couldn't say anything. I couldn't feel anything. He never knew I loved him. I had never told him. I closed my eyes, feeling totally helpless and dead inside.
The smell of his hair came to me then. Faint in the arms of strangers, in the middle of a crowded block in front of St. Bart's Hospital, I breathed deeply. I envisioned my friend's smile, and his scent overtook my senses. It gave me a moment's strength, and I forced myself to my feet then, shoving people out of my way. I ran lamely, trying to make my way after the stretcher that had taken my friend from me, but it had gone. It was nowhere. And where was Sherlock? Not gone. He couldn't be. But he was. I had seen his face, seen it lifeless and bloodless, seen his gushing head wound. I wanted to cry. I wanted my life to end.
When something of this magnitude takes place, it seems incredible and impossible, suddenly, how anything could ever happen again. I was in awe of the people walking by. In awe of the trolleys still going and the taxis still picking up passengers. In awe of the fact that my heart still beat, and that it hadn't ceased with that of the infamous Sherlock Holmes. Jesus.
It was real. I was alone. I floated through the next few days like a ghost. Every second, I expected Sherlock to burst through the doors of 221b exclaiming that he had never meant to cause me distress and that, in fact, he was quite alive. But he never did. I was all alone again. In that sodding awful flat, my loneliness felt oppressive. I hated everything. I was angry at the world for taking the only person who'd ever made any difference in my life; for taking the only person I'd ever loved so powerfully. I needed him back. God, I really needed him back.
The day after it happened, I spent all the hours between sunrise and sleep sitting in my armchair, staring at his. I imagined him sitting on it. I waited for his image to appear, for him to start talking to me rapidly, making this deduction or that. I imagined he'd kiss me, bend over my chair like he had done a week ago. I glanced at our sofa. It was clean now, but I remembered what we'd done there fondly. The last time we'd ever touched so intimately. The last time.
I held back tears. I would find myself doing that a lot in the months to follow.
Sherlock's funeral was attended by few. Everyone thought the man was a fake, now. They thought he was a psychopathic mastermind who had concocted all his genius to stroke his own ego. They thought he had arranged for all the murders he'd solved. Fury was prominent within me after the death of my friend. I had severe problems with rage. I attacked people violently when they said a word against my old colleague. I was usually in such a blind rage, I never even knew I was doing it. I would suddenly find myself behind bars, and would frequently cry there where no one could see me. Lestrade felt for me. I don't think he really believed that Sherlock was guilty of his supposed crimes. He helped me greatly after his death. He dealt with Sherlock's paperwork, such as his will and all that. Apparently, my friend had left me everything he had. I didn't want it, so it sat in 221b for a long time. Molly Hooper, too, was a great comfort. She seemed more distraught than I was. She didn't cry, but every time she came to visit, she spoke vaguely, as though lost in her own thoughts. She seemed numb, too. I knew she'd fancied him. It didn't bother me. The poor coroner cringed every time Sherlock was mentioned, as though she didn't want reminding of him. When I said I missed him, she flushed, and seemed passionately desperate to change the subject. The poor woman. I felt her grief, though hers was certainly of a very different kind. I had asked her if I could have his coat. That had been her one open moment with me. The question seemed to undo her. She cried fiercely into her palms, wheezing through her heavy sobs that she was afraid she couldn't, for Sherlock had requested to be buried with it. My heart sank, but I understood. I wanted to respect the wishes of my dearest friend; my other half.
It didn't take long for me to move out of the flat I'd shared with Holmes. I did so just to get away from the haunting presence I felt there; just to escape the traumatic loss of my love. But no matter where I moved, that empty feeling followed me everywhere. I hurt wherever I went. It made no difference. Still, I couldn't stay at Baker Street anymore.
I still visit Sherlock's grave once a week, even all these months later. I speak to him as though he can hear me, and sometimes I feel that he can. Once, on the tube on my way to my new flat, I thought I saw him, actually. A very pale, tall man with his face in shadow was standing at the opposite end of the car. There was something deeply familiar about him. I felt a tug in my chest.
I realized then, with a shattering blow, that it could not be him. My friend was dead. No matter where I thought I saw him or thought I felt his presence, it would never be him. Sherlock Holmes was gone forever.
Sherlock Holmes was dead.
I know it's a sad note to end on after a series all about sex, and I'm sorry for that. I hope it was still bearable. Thanks for reading!