#post reichenback

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Monday.

It’s a year today since Sherlock left me.

A year.

It still feels like yesterday I heard him tell me those things, about – him.

I remember it as clear as day, him lying there, covered in blood, cold, dead.

It was the most traumatic thing I’ve ever been through – and I invaded Afghanistan.

I’m really not coping very well.

I’m still putting two plates on the table, making two cups of tea.

Sometimes I even call his phone, even though I know he won’t answer, just to hear his voice. It’s the only thing that makes me smile.

I’ve moved far away from Baker Street now, I’m living back in my old place but even though I’ve moved, I’ve still kept the key to 221b and I regularly go back to see Mrs Hudson – but I can’t go in there. I can’t.

Whenever I do go back there though, the only thing I can think about is him, about him running around the flat, about him playing his violin, making noise whatever he did. He was never a quiet one. Not when I was around anyway, he always had something to mumble about. I miss that, you know, having him pacing around mumbling complete rubbish to himself about whatever case he was on, it was gobbldy gook to me, but it was nice to hear him… being there, being with me.

I remember when we first met and he figured out that my brother was an alcoholic just by my phone, by a few scratches, although it was my sister but there was no way even he could have got that. He always joked about me being so stupid but deep down I really wish I could be like him, I wish I could determine an airline pilot by his left thumb and a retired army doctor with an alcoholic brother from his mobile phone.