(Create your own ending)
Sometimes I will hear his violin playing, echoing around the flat. My footsteps will surround me as I run to the living area, only to find no one there.
Sometimes I’ll stand by the window, the window by the desk where he sat so many times before and I’d be quiet just for him.
Sometimes I’ll just sit.
Sit on the sofa opposite his own seat, hoping that I will hear the door creak open and see his booming figure standing there, the blood wiped from his face and his collar flicked up on his long jacket.
I know he’s dead, but I still see the day when he walks through the door again, his eyes gleaming with an excitement only few can understand, to tell me “There’s a new case” and for me to stand, look him in the eye and say “A murder?”
Why did you have to die?
Mrs Hudson needs you.
Anderson needs you.
I need you.
There was always that small gleam in your eye when those words left your lips, or when you would stand by the window on a cold snowfall day and have your violin play the notes that would chill anyone who entered the room to the bone.
Why did you have to die?
Sometimes I cry, when I’m alone.
I think of the day when your body tumbled to the earth, not to stand up, dust yourself off and tell me you’re ok but lie there motionless, the blood seeping from your head and colouring your pale, lifeless face.
“Do you remember when we first met” a cold air swept passed my face, my head lay low and my hands wrung together in a scarf wrapped around my neck “One of the first things I remember you asking me was Iraq or Afghanistan?”
I did a forceful laugh; taking in a deep gulp to try holding back the tears that seemed to pain my chest.
“Or the time when you looked to me for approval” I fell silent; emotions seemed to engulf around me, throwing my body into a broken cocoon along with a mixture of pain and anger.
“WHY DID YOU HAVE TO DIE SHERLOCK” I suddenly hear myself shout out, no one else was here to hear me.
To watch me fall to my knees and grasp at the dirt on top of his grave, tears dripping down my face and dampening the flowers that rested at the foot of his grave.
I never noticed the shadow behind me, only feeling the warm shadow on my neck and the area around me darken.
A hand grips my shoulder gently making my head whip round to see Mycroft standing above me, his face ashen and low.
“He will never truly be gone John” Mycroft began, letting go of my shoulder and allowing me to stand to my feet “You just need to remember his legacy.”
I stare at him, dumbfound by his choice of words about his younger brother “Why do you care about him?” I ask, not stopping to realize my choice of words.
“Because he is my brother” Mycroft began, placing an arm around my shoulder and guiding me away from the grave “Because sometimes you need to forgive in the times when those to be forgiven are gone.”
Sometimes I’ll sit by myself in a cab for no reason at all, travelling through London.
But at these times I smile to myself.
I’ll smile because I will remember the memories that I have had with Sherlock since I have known him.
I’ll smile because I know that one day we will be reunited together.
Though I don’t know how.
Whether it be through old age or through falling from a building.
We will unite.
Now I stand.
Stand facing the ground as I step upon the step from which Sherlock fell.
It is my time.
I must see him again, and not through the memories that are stored in the back of my mind, but through my own eyes.
I never thought that the idea of suicide would come to my mind but it has.
I am coming.