I have officially lost control of my muse. I swore I would never do this. *Bows head in shame*

For all you Sherlockians who insisted that I give in to the feels. I hate you.

Are you listening, John?

I see you, looking up and not daring to believe your eyes. A cell phone raised to your ear as you stutter denials and hold onto your belief in me with ironfisted tenacity. I'll miss that, you know. But are you listening?

It's a trick, just a magic trick. Slight of hand and simple observation. A manipulation of data. You just need to know what you're looking for.

You know how it works. You've seen it done a thousand times. It always ends the same.

Give me your ear and I will tell you about yourself. I'll tell you what you ate for breakfast, and who you did or didn't sleep with the night before. I'll tell you what part of town you've been in by the sludge on your shoes. I can tell you anything you want to know.

Maybe I'll go deeper. I could tell you about the steadiness of your gaze when you think I'm not looking. And the way you hold yourself so proudly like a soldier who lost a limp. About your sister who can't keep her hands from shaking at the prospect of an empty bottle.

About your blog and why it's bullshit.

How you deny every lie I tell you now because you know better. I let you know me better.

Are you listening, John?

I let you.

Look me in the eye and tell me you understand. Tell me you're listening. Keep your eyes fixed on me and listen to my note, to my last confession before I take the fall. Tell me you hear the words I can't say. Tell me you know what I mean.

It's a trick. It's only a magic trick but you know I am no entertainer. I do not exist for anyone's amusement. I am no magician, though machine was suggested once or twice. And if that is the case, then excuse me while I toss a wrench into the gears. Let me cut myself in half, severing all the wires and short-circuiting my pulse. I'll make sparks of my innards, and light a fire more destructive than any Baker Street explosion.

I'll paint the sidewalk red and no one will suspect a thing. I'll play my part. My reputation will be another casualty if that's what it takes.

I was told that falling is like flying. Perhaps I shall test this hypothesis. Perhaps we can treat this as another experiment. Perhaps that will make this hurt a little less. And one day I will come and tell you my findings over tea and nothing will have changed.

But until then, I'll leave you with a few words to remember me by. And a few I'll just keep to myself, but I hope you hear them between the lines.

I was told that falling is like flying, and if that's what it means to fall for you, then I won't mind.

I promise.

Goodbye, John.