Sleeping with Angels

Help Me

I needed a doctor. A therapist. An institute. Something. I had not slept in days for he called to me most nights. He just talked. Rambling on and on as if he could never stop and he still hasn't. He reads my stories... No, our stories constantly. Day and night. As if he wants to burn the memories into me. As if he wants to keep me frozen in the past. Mary has become distant but I cannot bring myself to her as she was not my past. He was my past. My past is my past but also my present and my future. He is what has been, what is, and what will be. The stories continue on and on and on and on and on and... He has told unfamiliar stories too. Strange stories of a different time. A bride. 18-Something-a-year. I don't know. What a lovely mustache. Mine should be like that. I see him. Everywhere he is. Where is he? Where am I?  The room is white. White. Bright. A light. What a sight. Want to fly a kite. Wait. What. No. That's not right. Sherlock... Sherlock is in sight. His Height! But he is so tight! Ah well! Goodnight!

A Doctor he says he is! Doctor who? I cannot remember his name. It's in a blur. It's been a blur for a while but Sherlock is here. He is always here. Except for when he died. He didn't die. He is here. He's not dead. He's not dead. He's not dead. He's not dead. He's not dead. He's not dead.

..............

"It's been months Mr. Holmes. His state - beside our best efforts - are deteriorating. He claims that he voices won't end and that he is alive despite acknowledging that he has witnesses his death. We can assume it could be PTSD that has unfortunately developed into quite a serious case mental disorder, complete madness - to put it simply - whih he may not recover"

That's what he said. The man. But i am not crazy. Your here. As I am here. Together. Arn't you?

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"Of course John"