It’s been a week. One full week since he jumped. Sherlock—my best friend—jumped. He’s- gone, now. And he won’t be coming back. Why? Why’d he do that? He was married to his work, he was doing well, wasn’t on drugs or anything.
The last time we spoke—in person, I mean—it was when I got that call. The one about Mrs. Hudson being shot. She wasn’t though. I don’t know where the mix-up happened, but she’s fine. But he’s not.
I’ve gone over everything that happened. I’ve gone over it so many times now, trying to see why, why did he do that? There’s only one answer that I thought of. There’s only one answer that makes sense.
It was me. Must have been. Right before I left, right before I stormed out, I told him. I called him a machine. I never do that. I don’t call him a machine. Everybody else did—Sally, Philip, even Greg sometimes, but not me. Because he’s not a machine, he’s not a freak. He’s—he was—a genius, and that’s that. But that one time, just that one time, I did. I called him a freak, I called him an inhuman, cold machine. I didn’t think it would affect him. Well, to be honest I wasn’t thinking at all. I just said it.
And then I ran off, and he was alone. He said that, too, just before I left he said “Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.” But alone didn’t protect him this time. And then me, I said “No. Friends protect people.” I said that, I said that right after calling him a machine. He’s told me that too. “I don’t have friends; I have one.” I was his only friend. And I betrayed him.
So, with me gone and no one else around, he must have decided to just be done with it. Sounds like something Sherlock would do. He walked right up to that roof no doubt and decided to end it all. At least he called. I’m glad he called. He said he was a fake; that he’d invented Moriarty and researched me and all that. Rubbish, that is. Pure rubbish. I know him. He was real. A real genius, and nobody will ever convince me otherwise. But, apparently, it wasn’t worth it anymore. He decided to give up and let Moriarty win.
He was crying, on that roof. Sherlock Holmes was crying. I’ve said he’s not a freak or a machine or anything, but he doesn’t cry. Doesn’t show emotion. The man was a regular Mr. Spock. So what he was feeling right before he jumped was a lot of emotion. And I put him there. On that roof, with those feelings. That’s what that one little word did to him.
So, in the end, that’s it. That’s why he jumped. That’s why Sherlock Holmes, my best friend, jumped off of St. Bart’s Hospital. He jumped because I pushed him. And I don’t think I’m ever going to forgive myself for it.