It's been almost a year and half since that day at Bart's. To be honest, I'm not sure why I let myself start another blog. After the funeral (which you would have hated, by the way – much too sentimental), I deleted my blog and told myself I would try to start over. I resolved to create the new, “bright and shiny” life of Bachelor John Watson, wherein I would spend more time at the clinic and less time running about the streets of London at two in the bloody morning. But starting over isn't really an option after you've experienced Sherlock Holmes, is it? Life with you was a constant onslaught of excitement. You whipped around me in that bloody coat of yours like some sort of fierce storm, ripping and tearing at me until I was the reformed, raw John Watson I had lost so many years ago. It took…jesus, months and months of skirting and scuttling and dancing around the edges for me to finally reach the eye of the storm where the dust settled and your winds ceased. For a short while, things were actually, perfectly balanced, weren’t they? But then you threw yourself off of a bloody roof and I was torn from that equilibrium - cast far out amongst the rubble and wreckage. To risk sounding like a codependent tit, I was lost. I spent god knows how long with your voice inside my head, whispering snide remarks and correcting me with that public school drawl of yours at every turn. But the days moved on and I carried on, going through the motions of daily life. It got easier. It's getting easier. But I don't know if it will ever be easy.
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