Work Text:
One more miracle
please, Sherlock
But it never came. I think it's fitting really, that he was the one who made me believe in miracles, since he himself seemed to be one. So he should be the one to take that belief away too.
I know that he would have laughed at me, a grown man believing in such things. I don't even think he could have understood it. Would he had tried, for me? Or would he had just scoffed at me and dismissed me? I guess I'm never gonna find out now am I.
Well it's fine either way, really, since I don't believe anymore. Not in miracles, not in anything. It's all gone now. Almost as it never happened. You know the feeling you have when you wake up and know you had a dream but can't remember it. Sherlock was that feeling, a dream I once had and even if I could I don't want to recall it. As I fear that upon thinking about him, about the times we had, I might find myself not remembering. The way his eyes lit up when there was an interesting case, though I could never quite figure out how he knew instantly which cases would be of interest to him. It never stopped to amaze me, how he could just glimpse the case and know immediately what had happened. Even the cases he found more challenging would almost always be solved in a day or two. Nothing seemed to be unsolvable to him. And all I could do was stare in awe. The first time I heard people call him freak I felt rage like I had never felt before. Freak?! Just because you're feeling intimated, just because you can't understand something doesn't mean you get to be an ass about it. He wasn't a freak, he was genius, his level of intelligent was amazing. Not to mention how beautiful he looked while thinking. That concentration, a slight wrinkle forming between his eyebrows and then the ever so slight relaxation shoulder movement when he got the answer. The joy that he hid behind that cool posture. Sherlock always acted like nothing could faze him, like solving crimes was just boring task. But behind that mask was curiosity, need to solve things, joy and content when finding answers. And behind all that was insecurity. I had learned to see behind his posture, but now I was afraid I'd forget what it even looked like. Would I still be able to remember the scent that lingered in the air when he walked past by, the way frustration made his whole body tense up. His smile, his touch. If I thought back to all of that, if those images weren't there anymore. I knew I wouldn't survive that.
Like you could call this surviving. Everything is just so damn painful. I know I'm avoiding the problem, the emotions, but I just don't want to face any of it. So I go and try to drown my own mind. I know there would be a way out. A way to make it all stop. I have thought about it almost every day since... Since that happened. I had moved out of our shared apartment back to the place I lived when I came back to London. I didn't bother with packing my stuff, I couldn't care less. Only thing I took with me was my gun, the rest I told Mrs. Hudson to just throw away. I couldn't be in that house anymore, I couldn't look at the empty places he used to occupy. Where ever I looked I saw him, sometimes the vision was so vivid that I thought he was actually there. I think I scared Mrs. Hudson a few times with shouting Sherlock's name, she'd always look at me with this half a smile on her face, eyes filled with pity. Which was another thing I just couldn't take. Everything in that house made the pain build up so much I started to hate being there. I got angry at everything, breaking his stuff, throwing the skull against the wall, smashing his stupid violin that used to make me crazy. Used to. Now I would have given anything to hear it. Being in that house was just too much but all of that was only part of the reason I moved. I didn't want Mrs. Hudson to be the one.. To find me. So I moved and that thought became even more tempting, it started to consume my every thought. At first what stopped me was the very fact that I thought he would, against all logic, came back. That he would defy even death just so he could come back to me. I needed him to solve this one too. If anyone could do it, it would be him. When I realized that wouldn't happen, I picked up the bottle. Can't shoot myself if I'm too drunk to hold the gun, eh? But now.. Now it feels that no amount of alcohol is enough. The words that never got spoken keeps weighing me down more and more, the guilt of not being able to stop it, the pain of not being able to stop everyone turning their backs on him. I saw how much it affected him, even when he did his best to hide it. The phone call that keeps playing in my mind in a loop that never ends. I drink and I drink and I drink, I'm drowning but my mind is never quiet. Every night I go back to my apartment, take out my gun and hold it against my head. And every night I put it back little less scared of what I almost did.