Don't Be...Dead

5- Leaving

(A little over a year later)

I decided to check my blog. I hadn’t typed up anything new since…since it happened, but new comments and messages were coming in all the time. I looked at one of the new ones. Have you ever heard of Johnlock? The message was followed by a link. Curious, I clicked the link and a website appeared, littered with pictures of Sherlock and me. I clicked one. Words appeared across my laptop and I read through them. Finishing that story, I went back and clicked another, then another. Each story was about Sherlock and I. Sherlock returning. Sherlock and I kissing. Sherlock and I getting married. Sherlock and I raising a kid. Sherlock and I.

Each on was so vivid, I could see Sherlock next to me, could feel his body against mine. But Sherlock was dead, and despite the theories of the fans I still couldn’t believe we had, he wasn’t coming back. I should know. I was there. I had taken his pulse. Sherlock was dead, and nothing was going to change that.

A tear fell onto the keyboard of my laptop and I reached for my face. I felt around my eyes and brought my hand back, damp with tears. Damn, what was happening to me? I never was like this before; I didn’t drink, wasn’t popping pills or anything like that, I didn’t even really cry. I was tough; I was a soldier after all. But now the slightest thing set me off, and I hated him for it. I hated him for leaving me here alone.

After a while I sighed and closed my laptop, going to his - my - the room. I just… I needed some sleep.

I woke up the next morning in a sort of daze. I flopped myself out of bed, combed through my hair, and buttoned up my shirt. Going to the bathroom, I grabbed my toothbrush and started brushing my teeth. Spitting out, I looked up and into the mirror. I froze at what I saw. His shirt. I was wearing Sherlock’s shirt, the purple one that pulled out the color of his eyes and stretched tightly against his pale skin. My face went white as I stared into the mirror and I felt like throwing up. Suddenly I started jerking around, trying to claw his shirt off. Finally succeeding in getting the shirt off, I flung it to the ground and bolted out of the bathroom, grabbing my jacket and zipping it up as I ran out of the flat, not even bothering to put a jumper or something on. I just needed out of there, fast. I let my legs carry me through the streets, not much paying attention to where I was going, but I definitely knew when I had arrived. My feet stopped me in front of Sherlock’s grave.

I took a shaking breath. I had promised myself I wouldn’t come back after I had asked him not to be dead, but here I was. I sat down on the ground, damp from dew and shivered. I really should have grabbed a shirt. I sat there, staring at the polished stone. I wanted to say something, but I really didn’t know what. I was rubbish at that sort of thing.

Suddenly I jumped up. I had seen a flower stand just outside the cemetery and thought I would get him one. It was a much easier way to tell him. I passed back through the grave yard and stopped at the stand outside.

“Umm, excuse me?” The young lady behind the stand looked up at me with a smile. “Um, do you have any roses?” I thought for a moment. “Preferably red,” I added as an afterthought. I knew very little about flowers, but I did know a few things. Red meant love. I had denied my feelings for so long now. Sherlock was dead though. I might as well tell him. The lady shuffled in the back, going through about twenty or so different containers before finally turning back to me.

“I’m sorry sir, it er, it seems we don’t have any red ones. Will a yellow one do?” I laughed. Yellow meant friendship. Even with Sherlock being dead, it looked like he was still rejecting me.

“That’ll be fine,” I said, taking the flower from her and digging out some money from my jacket. I paid her and walked back to the grave. I passed a girl sitting alone, a bunch of books spread out around her. Good place to study, I suppose. Nice and quiet and secluded.

I stopped in front of the headstone and sat back down. “Still rejecting me, huh Sherlock? Even in death.” I sat there for a while, thinking about how I had first met him. I hadn’t known it then, not really, but I think I had sensed it. After all, I had shot a man for someone I had just met. My smile disappeared as I realized where my adventures with him had led. Why hadn’t I rushed in and stopped him?

I sighed. “Sherlock, I… I’m leaving the flat,” I said decisively. “I can’t stay there without you. Maybe if I… maybe if I leave… maybe I’ll finally be able to move on.” I sat there for a while, then finally stood and left.