𝐖 𝐃 𝐂 𝐍 𝐑 𝐔 .
Man, no matter how great, will die eventually; Sherlock Holmes was no exception.
Man, no matter how wronged, has right to love and desires to be loved; John Watson realized this too late.
But someday they will be together again...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
「━━━━━━━━━━━━━」
❝WHERE DEATH CANNOT REACH US.❞
「━━━━━━━━━━━━━」
...
PLEASE, MY DEAR John, lay me down here, right here, beside the river. Where the deep waters from my dreams run along with the crystal waterfalls of tears you pour. Lay me down so that I can only hear the water rustling against my temple, not as you fall on your knees with a thud and bend over my limp body lying on the frozen dust, begging for it to be just a magic trick. I can hear you, darling. I hear you, though your voice does not seem to be yours. Oh, please, donʼt cry: donʼt break my heart with your sobs. Youʼve shed enough tears because of me.
I listen as you tell me to come back.
You say that I should not pretend to be dead, that I am an idiot, that it will not be like the last time, that you will not be furious, throwing your fists at me, but I have to fulfill one very important condition: I have to come back; have to stop pretending to be dead because you wonʼt fall for the same trick again. Sorry, John. Forgive me for handicapping your sane perception of the world by what I did on the roof of St. Bartʼs Hospital.
Look, my dear, my good doctor. My beloved blogger. Look, here. See? It was the bullet that went through my chest. Lovely, you are a doctor, a military one, a bloody goodone. Not only you know that the bullet hit an inch or a half from my right ventricle, because you had been in the army; you know that was a dum–dum that hit me, although you do yet not know how someone would have acquired such a missile in United Kingdom. I know, John. I know, although I can tell you not.
I know it may be hard for you, but please, you must know for certain. Look, here. This is where the bullet had hit me. An inch from the heart. Maybe a half. But itʼs dum–dum. It tore my chest from the inside, causing extensive bleeding. Touched the heart and my organ could not provide blood for itself; it could not heal itself. The heart never heals itself, ever. No matter metaphorically or in the event of actual muscle damage. Never. You, of all people, should know that as well as I do.
John, look. This is important. Very important. You must know for sure. Look into my eyes. Look, look into those dead eyes.
Our gaze will meet, but you will feel as if you are looking into a void. Intense blue, sapphire blue emptiness. No, our gaze wonʼt meet. You will look me in the eyes, but in spite of my open eyelids, I will not look into yours. Not as you expect it.
