Dear Sherlock

Gone

I know I shouldn't blame myself for him being gone, but I do. Every single day.

He told me once, that he wasn't okay. I tried to help him, but he insisted on doing this alone.

I begged and begged him to allow me to help, but he kept pushing me away. I didn't know what else to do.

My brother told me to leave him be, that he'll come to me when he's ready to - but how long before he's ready? How long before it's too late?

The answer is three days.

Three days I worried.
Three days I paced.
Three days I did not sleep.
Three days I did not eat.
Three days.

Gone.

Just like that, someone important to me leaves my life.

My best friend, the only one I was ever able to make, is gone from this world.

I can understand, truly I can. But I can't help but be angry. He just left. No note saying goodbye, no phone call, no texts. Nothing.

For three days.

I realize that I must grieve, and I believe that, in a way, I already have. All of these emotions are new to me, and it's all thanks to him. Not in a bad way, of course. I thank him immensely.

No, he taught me to empathize, to realize when I had done or said something wrong - he taught me compassion, and love, and friendship. He taught me to be human. He broke through my steel walls and fixed me; not that I was ever broken, mind - but he seemed to do more than ever I could.

The time comes where I must clean out his room, but I am unwilling to do so. I don't want another flatmate, nor will I be looking for one.

He was the only one that could ever fill the void.

He is irreplaceable.

Important.

Definitely not forgotten.

But I must do this.

I clear out his things, keeping some to myself. His jumpers, as ugly as I found them, always made me feel safe when wrapped in his arms.

The soft, fuzzy material rubbing against my face as I lay upon his chest never failed to make me feel content.

He would always run his fingers through my hair and complain that it was knotted. He joked about letting him wash it, but I always told him that I must do it a certain way, to which he would chuckle and say that I was ridiculous.

I'll never hear that again.

I cleaned out his closet and kept what I wanted.

I cleaned out his dresser and boxed what could leave.

I cleaned underneath his bed and found a small box, hidden at the back behind everything else.

It was addressed to me.

Inside were a bundle of notes, each folded in half so as not to be immediately seen. Each one contained my name scrawled in John's unruly handwriting.

The first one read: