I feel so... So stupid writing this. Trust me, I don't want to, not one bit. My therapist said that doing this - scrawling fragile, flung together words onto scratty, lined paper - would be good for me. I can't disagree more. Apparently, this is going to help me remember you as you were: hold onto every detail about - all the stuff that made you you that I can feel myself forgetting already. Though, according to everyone - the newspapers, the police, everyone - everything I thought I knew about you was all lies anyway.
Lies. All of it.
Thanks, Sherlock. Thanks a bloody bunch for this. I'm not even sure if I want to remember you anymore. If you never came into my life in the first place - "Afghanistan or Iraq?" - then I'd never be like I am now. You know... Broken. Dead inside. As dead as you. I wouldn't be upset about the death of a genius. I'd probably have read about it in the papers this morning and thought 'poor guy', and then moved on with my life - or as much of a life as I had, before you came into it.
I just don't think I can move on any more, Sherlock. You were too much a part of me - you were my friend, my best friend, and now you're gone, and I'm not sure I want a life without you in it, centre stage. Without you, I'm nothing. I have nothing to blog about - my life is ordinary. Less than ordinary. At least ordinary people are happy, and I'm so far from that. The only thing that made me not ordinary before, was you - the high functioning sociopath who changed everything.
Martha - that's my therapist - said that from the way I described you, you were actually nothing like a sociopath. She said you had too much heart, were far too compassionate. A sociopath would never have said example A, or done example C in a gesture of goodwill. Not that you ever had many gestures of goodwill, but whatever. Apparently you were more likely to be autistic.
You were wrong, Sherlock, at least about something. There were times when I used to think it was seriosuly impossible for you to be wrong - it was more likely that I became King or something. It proves you were human.
I never used to think of you as human. I knew you were, obviously... But until you... I always thought you were slightly apart from the rest of us lowly people, sent to this earth for some kind of greater purpose. It was an honour to be your friend, whether you were fake, or not. At the time it seemed real, and it seems real now.
I just thought you should know. Not that you will, because you're dead, and I'm pretending to write to you as if you're alive, except you're not. I keep forgetting, and then remembering again. Keep forgetting the pain, and then wincing as it all comes flooding back.
I'm going to stop writing now. This is awkward, and horrible, and I hate the way I'm writing to you as if you'll read this, as if you'll reply to it and come back to me - as if you weren't dead, weren't gone from my life forever.
I'm going to miss you, Sherlock Holmes.