Sherlock Holmes: A Study in Life

Chapter 28

It's been a long time since that case. We were all so happy. I've been trying to remember as much as possible; to keep him there, in my head where he's safe. Because there he's immortal and nothing can separate us. I still didn't understand why. Why he did it. Why he didn't talk to me. Why he kept it all to himself. But, then again, that was Sherlock. He was secluded and mysterious and oh so beautiful. He was the kind of person who could tear you down piece by piece and you wouldn't mind. I just didn't understand what made him think he needed to keep this secret to himself. I was his girlfriend, he should have told me...

It was a cold afternoon in the middle of autumn when he did it. Moriarty had resurfaced and an entire court case had been mounted against him because he broke into the Bank of England, Pentonville prison and the Crown jewels simultaneously and nobody had any clue how, except Sherlock of course. He was brilliant, furtive, always one step ahead of our enemy. Sadly, he wasn't far enough in front to foresee what happened that afternoon.

Moriarty had been playing with him, toying with his mind and somehow disproving Sherlock's entire reputation, one lie at a time. It got to the point where Lestrade actually arrested him on suspicion of abduction and kidnapping. Everyone he knew had turned against him apart from John, Mrs Hudson and myself. We knew what we were hearing couldn't be true, he was a good man, he would never hurt anyone. Not intentionally. I guess the rumours and lies really got to him and he finally snapped.

That morning went by in a blur. John mentioned something to me about Sherlock being in serious trouble, apparently Mycroft had sold Sherlock out to Moriarty in exchange for the key-code that he had used to open the doors to the bank, prison and crown jewels earlier that week, but I thought nothing of it at the time. I knew Sherlock and Mycroft didn't get along but there was no way that he'd do something like that, or so I thought. If there were ever a time I wanted to slap Mycroft Holmes, now was one of those times.

I was sat on one of the steps in 221B with Mrs Hudson drinking tea whilst a bald tattooed worker drilled into the walls, Mrs Hudson said he was fitting a new light, when John came barrelling through the door to the building, out of breath and panicked.

"Oh, God, John! You made me jump!" while our landlady talked, John looked from her face to mine and then back again. Slowly, his eyebrows unfurled and his expression changed from confusion to pure horror.

"Oh my God..." he said softly

"John?" I asked in confusion. "John!" I called again, putting down my tea and sprinting out of the door after him. I caught him just as he was waving down a cab "John! What's wrong?"

"It's Sherlock," he panted, opening the door and starting to get in, "he's in trouble. Serious trouble." and with that I clambered in after him. John asked the driver to go to Barts as fast as he possibly could and, on the way there, winding through the London traffic, he explained to me what had happened, that he had been at Barts with Sherlock and he got a phone call saying that Mrs Hudson had been shot so he rushed back but, evidentially, she was still very much alive so he thought it was a ploy to get him away from Sherlock, for what reason he didn't know, but we were soon to find out.

When we got to the hospital, I threw some money at the cabbie and rushed to get out. Once John's feet had hit the tarmac, his phone started ringing and Sherlock's name lit up his screen. He answered it in a panic and all I could do was watch him stutter and trip over his words, attempting to ask Sherlock what was going on. Suddenly, and reluctantly, he lifted his head to look up and I followed his gaze to see what he was looking at, then I saw him. Sherlock was stood on the edge of St Barts' rooftop, the phone to his ear, and I felt all of the blood drain from my face. My jaw dropped open and my heart sank down to my stomach. I felt sick as I watched on, unable to do anything, stunned. There were moments where John would attempt a short reply but could barely get anything out before he choked, trying to hold back the tears that I could see building up in his eyes, threatening to spill over. I was already crying, there was no point in holding it in. Hearing Sherlock's voice cracking faintly on the other end of the phone cut me like a knife.

Five agonizing minutes passed before Sherlock dropped his arm down and threw his phone aside.

"S-Sherlock? Sherlock!" John stumbled over his words, trying to get a response from Sherlock that would never come. I looked at him desperately, almost begging for him not to say what I already knew he was going to. "He's gone..." John muttered "Sarah, he's gone." He said more frantically, all sense of the composure he'd tried so hard to keep together gone, tears streaming down his face "He put the phone down." I gulped and turned back to look at Sherlock, my tears were still falling and showed no sign of stopping any time soon. I watched as he tipped forwards, letting himself freefall towards the ground. My heart stopped and my hands flew to my mouth. I couldn't hear anything, white noise seemed to surround me and before I knew what I was doing, I was running. My feet were carrying me along the concrete and around the corner of the garage block we had been stood behind. Tears blinded my vision and everything around me became blurred, just smudges of muddy brown and ash grey. Faint footsteps followed me and I assumed it was John but I didn't take the time to stop and find out, all I could think about was getting to Sherlock. I was praying for a miracle, that somehow he had survived the impact, as I pushed through the crowds of people, doctors and nurses and pedestrians combined, towards his bloodied body, clad in his trademark long black coat and blue scarf.

"SHERLOCK!" I screamed, desperate and erratic, shoving people aside so that I could get to him. When I finally reached his body, I placed my hand gently on the side of his face and felt his skin, cool and soft to my touch. He was so pale that the blood splattered across his face stood out like crimson paint on a clean canvas, staining him with pain and the remnants of a beautiful, wonderful life that had barely been lived. I threw myself down on top of him, as though I were trying to protect him from the crowds, muttering apologies, please come back's and I love you's to him. Words he'd never get to hear again. I just wanted him to know how sorry I was that I didn't recognise what he was going through before it was too late and that I wasn't there for him when I should have been. What I regretted most was not taking the phone from John so I could hear his voice properly one last time, or so that I could have at least tried to say goodbye before it was too late.

I remember the funeral. It was small. There weren't many people there but then again Sherlock never did have many friends. Not true ones anyway. One thing that confused me was that his parents weren't there, neither was Mycroft, but then again I don't think they could have bared it and I'm pretty sure that if I saw Mycroft there I would have punched him, or at least told him how ashamed I was to know him. I didn't have the energy for anything after that day, I still don't. Sometimes I wish those memories would just disappear so that I didn't have to deal with the pain, but I guess that's the thing about memories, especially of those we've loved and lost. Remembering can help to keep them alive in your heart, but it can also tear the wound open wider.

I closed my notebook with a crushing finality. My counsellor said that writing down everything I remembered about the time Sherlock and I spent together would help to ease the blow, but now that I've finished writing about my last memory of the two of us, I felt incomplete, like there was a hole somewhere inside of me that I couldn't quite find to fix. Looking at the royal blue cover of my notebook now, I was reminded of Sherlock's scarf, and from that I could picture him. All of him. Trench coat, collar up-turned, clean suit, curly hair and all. I saw him grinning as he completed a case and, for a moment, when I closed my eyes, I could feel him kiss me. His lips resting comfortably on mine and his hand holding the side of my face gently, as though I were made of porcelain and he was afraid he would break me.

I was reluctant to open my eyes, afraid that once I did Sherlock would be gone from my life forever, but I couldn't continue my life blind as well as heart broken, so when I did eventually open them I was greeted once more with the blank blue cover of my memories. He doesn't deserve this. I thought to myself, He deserves so much more than to be just another addition to my book collection. And with that, my pen touched the notebook and I carved the words "Sherlock Holmes: A study in Life" along with the numbers "1981-2012". The year he was born and the year he died. And that was it. The legacy of Sherlock Holmes. He will always be remembered by those who loved him and those who were lucky enough to have had him love them back, it was just a shame that the rest of the world would never get to know the curious case of Sherlock Holmes.