One More Miracle

3 • Collapse

I always walk there. I find the cool, crisp air of the London streets to be soothing.

The gates are open, and I walk straight in.

Sometimes, I wander around, go to the war memorial. I had been invited to speak at the Remembrance Day parade a few months ago, so I knew this memorial well, had read the names of the heroes many times. Sherlock had come with me, I didn't think he would want to at all he had seemed...proud to be invited, to accompany me there. I was in my full dress uniform and everyone was looking to me, Sherlock seemed to be impressed when I came downstairs fully dressed in it, something that flickered in his eyes for a moment (which my love-addled/ possibly lust filled brain interpreted it as desire, something which I quickly shook off. How many ways is he going to drive me crazy?) , until he asked to experiment on my boots for some reason or another. But when I was up at the memorial, he had watched, no hint of the usual boredom in his eyes, and he didn't even insult anyone while we were talking to people after, which I found strange.

Today, I went straight to the grave. To Sherlock's grave. I have to stop avoiding saying that, or anything else to do with...to do with his death.

I stood there, not saying anything. Just looking at the cool, dark marble with the heading 'SHERLOCK HOLMES' in gold, no date, no 'fell asleep' or some quote he'd hate just as much. Not even 'brother, son' as you would expect.

Sherlock's headstone should have borne more, perhaps even 'loving father and husband'. He could have got to that, one day, I think. He could have felt love at least not in the normal way, I'm sure he never did before. But having a friend, having me, had changed that about him.

I wonder, while stood with my arms placed on the cane in front of me and still staring resolutely at the slab of marble, if I had got to tell him how I really felt, that I loved him, if he would have still done it. We had so much time; I had had so many opportunities and just wimped out, if only I had said something, maybe he wouldn't have thrown himself off that building at all.

Standing here, I felt closer to him. Not just literally, because he was obviously in the soil under my feet, but I could feel his presence almost. It was almost as strong as I could feel in the flat, even though he'd been here once- and very briefly.

I stay there, in silence for just under an hour before I feel the cold creeping into my bones. I walk away, muttering a goodbye. As if he would hear it. I think I really am becoming delusional.

The cycle continues. Day after day I get up from a night of tossing and turning in bed while sleep continues to evade me, eat a very small portion then go to the graveyard, come home and lay around, attempting to sleep and failing.

I haven't slept the full 8 hours the body needs for ages. To be truthful, if I saw a patient with the same symptoms I have (I've lost just over a stone in weight, and my face seems to have become very pale, there are dark circles under my eyes too) I would prescribe them antidepressants. I'm not going to take those, they make you dopey, feel things unnaturally, forget.

Not that I'd go to the surgery to get a prescription anyway.

I haven't been there at all in the last month and I'm probably fired but I haven't been answering the phone so I have no way of telling. Harry ended up coming round, really worried but I made excuses, told her I had work to get her out before she would really see how far I've sunk into the depression. I know she saw the difference in my appearance though-and that she told Mum and Dad.

They've been calling too but I never feel like answering. I don't care the way I should, I don't care at all anymore. About anything I used to. I just try to get through the days.