Chapter 1: Mourning
"So she sat on with closed eyes, and half believed herself in Wonderland, though she knew she had but to open them again, and all would change to dull reality."
-Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland.
My therapist decided at tonight's session that I should write you a letter. You know, get all my emotions out on paper. There are things I never told you, and we all know it. I suppose she thinks I'll write them, since I refuse to say them out loud. She's wrong. You'll never read this letter, so what's the point? So; I have a list here beside me of things I'm supposed to talk about. Let's get this over with.
I miss you; that's obvious. The funny thing is that the things I 'hated' are the things I miss the most now. I continually wish I had a person with me that was actually willing to tell others how stupid they're being. Or your clutter, everywhere, having to move piles of books, papers, and jars, just to sit down. I moved out of 221B, and the new flat is so empty, neat, orderly, blank. There's barely anything in the fridge, and I still expect to find severed heads or body parts in there sometimes. It's almost disappointing when there's nothing.
I'm supposed to talk about my routine. That pretty much says it all; routine. I'm trapped in the endless repetition that I joined the army to avoid. Everything in my week is something I did the week before, and something I'll do next week, and so it goes, on and on and on. Predicable, blank, dull.
I wake up at 7:30 every morning. Always to the sound of my alarm. Never gunshots downstairs. Never someone running in shouting that they've set the kitchen on fire, and can't find the extinguisher. Just the alarm, and the empty flat. Predictable. Blank. Dull. I get dressed, and go to work at the clinic. The same, uninteresting problems. I wish I could be working in surgery again, but the tremor in my hand is back, and I doubt anyone would believe me if I told them it goes away when I'm under pressure. Every day, at 12:30, someone puts a peanut-butter and jam sandwich on my desk. I don't like peanut butter, but I eat it anyways. I save the crusts for last, and remember that you wouldn't eat crust; always left it behind on your plate. Worthless. Discarded.
My limp has returned. It was gradual, but it happened. I had to get a new cane, since I threw my old one in the river. I didn't think I'd ever need it again. According to my therapist, the emotional trauma had reminded me of my past physical trauma. Since feeling physical pain is easier than grieving, my mind provides me with a distraction. Then again, as your brother pointed out, she's never been very good at diagnosing me.
I work full shifts at the clinic now. Nobody texts me to interrupt my work. I wish they would; no one does. I catch the same train home every day. If it's a Thursday, like today, I go see my therapist. On Saturdays I visit your grave. I'm the only one that visits it. Maybe Molly. I don't know. Mycroft wouldn't bother, Mrs. Hudson's hip has gotten worse, and no one else knows where it is. I go to sleep at 10, and wake up at 1am with the nightmare. You'd know the one. After all, it's the only place I get to see you anymore. I almost look forward to seeing you approach the edge. Because for those few minutes, as you stand there, your eyes on me, your silhouette all dramatic, you're alive. Even as you mock me, about not getting there quicker, or you repeat those horrible untruths about you being a fraud, or you tell me that I never meant anything, you're still alive.
And then, or course, you're falling, and I'm screaming, and I see the blood on the concrete, and then I wake up, and it's exactly 1am. And I resent that you've become just another piece of my routine.
I know what will happen, every minute of every day. And I hate it. I miss the late-night chases, the unexpected drug busts, someone telling me that I'm being an idiot, ordering me out at ridiculous hours to get something they need for an experiment. My therapist says that the point of grieving is to let that person go, to let them move on. But I don't want you to move on, or rest in peace, and I don't think you want to either. You don't belong there, wherever you are. You belong in the chair across from me, working on a case, or running across London like a maniac. I'm a selfish bastard, but I don't care. I want you here, Sherlock. Or perhaps I want to join you, wherever you are.
It's not fair. None of it is. Sometimes I hate you for jumping. But mostly, I miss you. I need you. Come back; there are cases that need to be solved. Lestrade needs you to regain his reputation. Mrs. Hudson needs the money for our flat, to pay for her hip surgery. And I need you, so that I can remember how to smile. So that I can walk properly again. So that I can write a letter without my hand shaking. So that I can feel alive again. Come back, Sherlock. Please?
-John H. Watson.