I know you’re dead. I know you’re only human. I’ve always known that, even when it seemed like you didn’t.
And I know you’re never coming back.
Because these are facts and they can’t be changed, and I know that. But I don’t believe it. Because there’s a difference between knowing and believing.
I know you’re dead, Sherlock. But I don’t believe it.
I believe in you, and I will wait for you.
I wonder what it would be like to tell a person’s entire life story at a glance. How could you do that without any emotion, Sherlock? To know so much and not find any meaning in it? To look at the world, and see everything, and understand nothing. I mean, well, of course you understand it. You take what you see and you make deductions, brilliant deductions…but that doesn’t mean anything, does it? That doesn’t mean you understand.
No, you don’t feel things that way.
At least, I thought you didn’t.
It surprised me, actually. When I thought about it later. He could have used his last few breaths for anyone, but he chose to use them for me. His last word was my name.
Sometimes I wonder if my last word will be his.
The limp came back. I don’t care about everyone else pitying me for it. I just know that if he could see me now, it would make him furious. And I can’t stand that.
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I could have lived without you. I could have found a place to settle down, maybe got married, maybe had kids. I could have been happy without you. But the moment we met, Sherlock, the moment you came into my life…that was irrevocable. That was permanent. You changed my life, you changed me, so much that I can never go back to the way I was before. Now I can’t live without you.
The condensed, visual version of John Watson’s psychological profile. Click for hi-res.