You're An Idiot, Sherlock Holmes (OC x Sherlock)

Don't Be Dead

"All right," I said to Sherlock, who was sitting in his armchair across from me with his arms resting on the armrests and his long legs spread apart and relaxed. "I'm ready to know how you did it. How you faked your death."

Sherlock looked at me sadly before turning away to hide the tears that were starting to release. Regaining eye contact with me, Sherlock hollowly answered with, "I never did."

I woke up gasping for air, feeling the dryness in my mouth. Out of breath, I pressed the back of my hand to my forehead, feeling my cold forehead drenched in sweat. I peeled back the hairs attached to my forehead and walked into the bathroom. Flipping on the light switch, my eyes instantly adjusted to the immediate light. Pressing my hands on the cool bathroom countertop, I looked in the mirror at my exhausted and drenched reflection.

They haven't stopped. The dreams haven't stopped. Ever since the fall, my nightmares from the army consistently came back, and so did new ones. Now every time I closed my eyes, I couldn't stop myself from reexperiencing Sherlock on the roof and my phone call with him. I couldn't avoid the echoing sound of his neck snapping when his body crashed to the concrete. The dreams became progressivly more realistic and some nights I wouldn't sleep and comfort myself with a glass of rosé until I was finally pacified. 

Splashing my face with cold water to wake myself up, I continued staring at my reflection. My hair has grown out a bit and finally reached my shoulders, and recently I had it dyed back to my natural hair color: jet black. I decided I wanted to change. I was working on my change internally, but so far my change in appearance is going swimmingly. 

Still getting used to my new bathroom layout, it took me longer to find my toothbrush than it should have. Moving out of 221b was more difficult for me than it should have been. Albeit, I easily found a place located in London and near Scotland Yard. Why I chose Scotland Yard, I don't know. 

I have said my goodbyes to Mrs. Hudson; letting myself go of all of the memories Sherlock and I have built in the flat we shared was an arduous task; from the moment we first stepped into 221b together, to working on our first case together, to Sherlock throwing the American out of the window after he threatened to hurt Mrs. Hudson, our first Christmas, our first time (something that I promised myself to never forget), rare calm days with no case where I would be typing my blog while Sherlock paced the living room as he thought, and finding Sherlock shooting the wall because he was that bored. I can't let go all of that. It's simply not possible. 

I felt like I had no one. And I truly don't. Well, except for Mary Morstan. She and I go way back. One of the first friends I've ever had when I first moved to London, but we slowly drifted apart, though she still isn't forgotten in my memory. We recently started talking again on the phone; we had no time to talk to each other in person; she was always traveling the world, doing whatever was her job; I was busy solving cases with Sherlock. 

Now, all I have left is Mary. No Sherlock. No cases. No blog. I gave up that a few months back, announcing to my regular readers that there was no point anymore in writing anything if there were no cases to solve (no matter how many times my therapist insists on me continuing it). Without a blog to be my outlet, it's only been Mary Morstan that has helped me with coping. Though I still don't know how to do that.

~

Sitting in a bar by myself has become the new normal. If anything, this bar has become my regular hideout spot. I don't have a drinking problem, it's just that I occasionally enjoy taking off the edge. but then again, I convince myself that my marijuana problem isn't serious, yet here I am. 

Staring blankly at my wine glass, I spot Anderson and Lestrade step into the pub. My eyes go wide and I immediately get up to try and stay out of their way as much as possible. I would have been perfectly fine if Lestrade was alone. I could go talk to him about whatever- but Anderson?? He and Donovan were basically the ones that led to this hell of a mess called the fall. Or maybe not. I didn't really know what happened when they both started questioning Sherlock's identity.