March 28, 2012

January 21st, 2012

The sheets are starting to not smell like him anymore.

Fuck.

I thought it would take longer than a few days for that to happen. But I suppose I’ve been spending a lot of time in that bed lately, so the smell’s begun to fade, just like my memory. I realized today that I can barely remember what his voice sounded like. The way his eyes used to sparkle. The things he used to say. It’s only been a few days since I saw him, but it’s all starting to fade and that fucking scares me. How long before I forget him forever?

I never want him to fade from my memory. I keep trying to force myself to remember all the little details, but it hurts too much. It hurts too much to remember your voice and to remember that look in your eyes. And yet I don’t want to forget.

… which one do I want? Do I want to remember or do I want to forget? Maybe it would be easier if I could forget everything. Forget Jim ever existed.

The trouble is, I can’t.

I’ve tried. Really, I’ve tried. I’ve tried everything I can to make myself forget him. I haven’t posted in a few days because that’s all I’ve been trying to do. Drinking. Drugs. Trying to drown his memory. It works for a while. I can forget for a few short hours. But then it comes back worse than ever and all I can think about is how disappointed he’d be if he could see me now. High off my fucking arse, trying to forget him. Pitiful, really. I know it is. Sometimes I wonder if those few hours when he doesn’t matter are really worth the pain that comes later.

What scares me is I know they aren’t.

And I keep doing it.

Am I getting addicted again? Am I going to end up the way I was when he first came to me those four years ago, after I’d returned from the war to find my family dead? Drunk, drugged, miserable excuse for a human being. Only it will be worse than before because there won’t be anyone to save me. I’ll end up overdosing and killing myself.

I’m trying to stop. Fuck, I am. But when I go for more than a few hours without something (heroin, alcohol, morphine, anything like that) I start thinking about him and how he used to smell, and how he used to sound, those stupid little nicknames he called me, and then I break down and take more of whatever the fuck I took in the first place and then I can forget for a little while longer.

I’m falling apart. I can’t take it much longer. I need to move on, but I can’t.

I don’t know if I ever will.

-Sebastian Moran

March 26, 2012

January 17th, 2012

I think I’m going insane.

I swear to fucking god I saw him today. I swear.

I went out for the first time since I found his body. I wouldn’t have, but I was out of alcohol and that’s pretty much all that stops me from driving myself mad thinking about him now. So I went out to buy some more. There’s one not far from the flat Jim and I share. Used to share, I guess. So I walked. No point in taking out one of Jim’s stupidly expensive cars when I didn’t need to. I drew a lot of rather disturbed looks as I walked; couldn’t blame them. I must look awful. I haven’t showered since he died. Haven’t shaved either. I can’t bring myself to wash the blood off my hands, either, which is stupid. I guess I feel like it’s the only thing I have left of him. Which is sort of true. Still, stupid. Most of it has flaked off by now, though, so it’s hard to tell what it is. Thankfully. Otherwise I’d most likely get arrested or something.

Whatever. That’s not the point.

When I got to the store, I wasn’t really looking at anyone. I had my head down and my hood pulled up to try and dissuade some of the glances people kept throwing my way. As I was looking at the different types of scotch and remembering how that certain one used to be Jim’s favourite when I felt someone staring at me. Thinking it was another curious or scornful person, I turned around to tell them to mind their own fucking business.

But it was him.

I swear to god it was. Same brown eyes, same brown-black hair, same smug little smirk. And he was smirking, too. His ‘I know something you don’t’ smirk. And he winked at me. And then I closed my eyes and covered them with my hands because fucking hell I AM GOING INSANE and when I opened them… he was gone.

I ran straight home without buying any liquor, which I’m seriously regretting now. And I know what I saw wasn’t a drug induced hallucination because I wasn’t high. Wasn’t drunk, either. So either I’m going mad, or… I’m going mad. That’s really the only explanation. I’m insane.

Or maybe this is an isolated incident. That can happen, right? People think they see loved ones after their death? It goes away, doesn’t it? Maybe I’m not insane. Maybe I’m just… still in denial. Or whatever that stage of grief is. Because I really, REALLY don’t want him to be dead.

If only I could be stupid enough to let myself believe that he’s not.

-Sebastian Moran

March 25, 2012

Anonymous asked: I think these depressed things you write for the whole world to see are the reason online suicide groups start. You could try one of those. I hear all the pain goes away rather quickly, and since you yourself can't pull the plug on your life because of your *ahem* slight problem in the finger department, having "friends" help sounds like just what you need. In my opinion, if you're so saddened by his death, the only way you'll find peace is by joining him.

So what you’re telling me is that I should commit suicide.

Well. Isn’t that considerate.

Don’t think I haven’t thought of it before. I think about it a lot. Fuck, I’ve held the gun up to my head and almost done it three times, and it’s only been a day since he died. But every time I’m about to pull the trigger, I hear him saying “I’m so disappointed in you, Sebastian.” And I can never do it after that.

So thanks for the fucking great advice, anon, but doesn’t look like I’m going to end up killing myself anytime soon. If you know anyone who’d be willing to do it for me, by all means, have them do it.

March 25, 2012

Anonymous asked: I lost a man very close to me as well. I know what it's like. To miss the stupid, annoying things they used to do. Like their cold ass feet on your legs in bed. I can recommend drugs, but they only perpetuate the problem, and you're still probably shaking too much to hold a gun...

Fuck. Jim used to do that too. His feet were always so fucking cold. His hands too. Guess it was like his heart, huh?

And fuck you, whoever you are. I can hold a gun just fine. I just haven’t had the reason to since Jim died. I’m considering going out and killing some people, though. Maybe that would help. My fingers keep fucking twitching. I need SOMETHING. If not drugs, then blood.

March 25, 2012

January 16th, 2012

Wow. I created this thing yesterday, and already I’ve got seven followers? I’m so popular. Can’t believe people actually want to listen to me ramble about this shit. At least now I don’t feel like I’m talking to myself.

Jim used to do that. All the time. He’d pace back and forth in the living room, muttering to himself, with his brows pulled down over his eyes, glaring at the ground. Used to drive me fucking insane, that muttering. Now all I can think about is how much I miss it. What I wouldn’t give to hear it just once more. To see him pacing furiously in front of that ridiculous white couch that we had to get cleaned nearly every week because of all the blood stains we got on it. Along with… other stains.

It’s so odd without him. So quiet. No “get your arse up, tiger, I’ve got a job for you.” Tiger. He always called me that. I guess it’s supposed to be a reference to my record for hunting tigers in India? Or some reference to my personality? I really don’t know, or particularly care. Just one of his many nicknames for me. Sugar, honey, sweetheart, sparrow, tiger, Seb, Sebby, sexy… I swear, if anyone calls me any of those again, I’ll smash their heads in. Not that I’m going to get close enough to anyone for them to call me any of that.

I miss him so much. It’s only been a day and I already feel like I can’t deal with this any more. I can’t stand it. I wish I could rip my heart out of my chest just so I don’t have to live with this anymore.

Anyone reading this blog ever lost someone? What’s the best way to fill the void? Drugs? Alcohol? I’ve heard some people cut themselves… always have been a masochist. Does that help? People can send in asks, can’t they? Send in some suggestions. Tell me what the fuck I’m supposed to do to stop myself from going insane.

-Sebastian Moran

March 24, 2012

January 15th, 2012

Jim’s dead.

Really and truly irrevocably dead.

Fuck.

I knew this would happen. He told me it might come to this. I thought I could be strong. I thought it would be okay.

It’s not.

I convinced myself it would be. But then I got up to that roof and there he was. Lying there on the cold cement with that red, red blood spread around his head like a halo. I guess Sherlock got to see him in that crown. I honestly thought I was going to be okay until I saw his eyes. His fucking eyes. Those beautiful brown eyes that were always so vital, so alive, so Jim…. They were so dull and lifeless. Void of any spark of life. They were everything Jim never was. Boring. Dull. Dead.

I’m glad no one was there to see me. I didn’t even realize who was making those awful, agonized sounds for the longest time. Before I realized I was the one making them. And then I was holding him in my arms and crying and all I could think about was ‘his clothes are going to be stained. He’s not going to like that. Blood is so hard to get out.’ It didn’t make any sense, did it? Because he can’t be mad. He’s dead.

Fuck. I can’t even see what I’m writing. I don’t even know how I still have enough water left in my body for tears. I’ve cried a fucking river already. Not to mention I’m getting blood all over the keys. How the hell do you clean blood off of computer keys?

I have no idea WHY I’m writing this. I know that piece of shit detective’s little pet writes a blog about what goes on in his boring little life. So I decided I would try it. See if it helps, which I doubt it will.

And maybe because I want him to see this. Because I don’t believe for one second that he’s really dead. I have no idea where he is, but he’s not dead. I could kill Watson and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson like I was told to do if he didn’t die, but I don’t think I will. It will be more painful for him to suffer through watching his friends live on and forget him than to see them dead. If I deserve to suffer, then so does he. So does John Watson. So does every last pathetic person in this rotten world.

So for now, I’m sinking down to that doctor’s level and trying this out. Who knows. Maybe that damn bastard will see it. And yeah, who knows, it might even help.

We’ll see.

This is Day One.

-Sebastian Moran

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