I stand alone at his grave, waiting for Mrs Hudson's footsteps on the soft gravel to grow far enough away. So many emotions, so many words. I hear his voice in my head, "sentiments" he scoffs. I wish he was here to say it for real. I wouldn't even care that he was making fun of me if only he was here to do it.

"One more miracle, Sherlock, just for me." I say, the words cold and bitter in my mouth. "Don't be...dead."

I can't stop the tears that fall.

In the the taxi on the way home, I shiver as we pass out of the gates to the cemetery. I don't like them. They're for all the people doctors couldn't save. It makes me feel so powerless, though god knows I feel powerless enough now that he's gone.

I close my eyes for an instant and I can suddenly see him. Standing on top of St Barts. This is my note. A sinking feeling rushes through me as I remember the exact instant when I realised...what he was about to do.

Even as I ran to help him I knew it was too late. But I knew I had to try. I remember feeling his wrist, so cold, waiting for a pulse that never came.

I'm brought back into the real world by the cabbie tapping on the partition.

"Mate, we're here?" he says uncertainly. I look outside the window and see the familiar black door. 221B Baker Street.

I pay him, then slowly walk up to the door. I take the key out of my pocket and push it into the lock. I'm almost afraid of what I might find on the other side.

The hallway still smells the same – musty with a hint of damp. I can hear Mrs Hudson humming to herself as she does the washing up. I can hear the sound of the postman whistling as he delivers another parcel to Mrs Hafner, the German lady next door. I don't know why she needs so many. Sherlock would.

I can't hear all the important things. Explosions. Violins. Bullets hitting the poor wall interjected with bored bored bored. No shouting at the tv I don't care how accurate the test is, she has to be cheating, just look at that shirt, and come on his brother is the father of their child, his shoes, ask him about his shoes, idiots all of them idiots, they're not observing, John, NOT OBSERVING!

I miss that.

As I stand in the doorway looking over all his things I feel so utterly lost and completely alone. It just doesn't feel like home without him.

A single tear rolls down my cheek and hits the floor with a gentle splash. It sounds like an almighty guncrack in the absolute emptiness that he's left me.

I miss everything about him. His brilliance. The way his eyes shone when he was nearly, but not quite, outwitted. The fear I saw in that instant when I opened my jacket and he realised that I was the next bomb. The amused guilt he felt when I pointed out yet another social blunder. The way he looked out for me, always.

He would never show that he cared about me but I knew it all the same. I know he wouldn't have left me without a reason, there must have been a reason. He was such a brave intelligent man, he would never have killed himself unless there was a reason. Although there were, of course, times that I doubted his humanity, I know he would have been logical to the end. If there had been another way, he would have taken it, and that thought comforts me a little. I can only guess at what his death can have achieved. I know the answers are there, but I can only look. I can never observe like he can. Like he could.

"I don't want to be alone," I whisper. I don't know who I thought would hear my words. Sherlock, maybe? Looking down on me? Or, more likely, looking up. Heaven would bore him to death. Eternal torture and damnation would no doubt amuse him, and would at least keep his mind busy.

I'm starting to sound like a crazy person. Is this a normal reaction to death? I know somewhere in my medical training I learned how to cope, but all I can think about is him. The amazing Sherlock Holmes, the world's best and only consulting detective. My best friend.