Boys don’t cry

A ray of sunlight cuts through the thick, dusty curtain in the bedroom. John squints, trying to block out the light. He rolls over onto his other side, pulling the blanket up to his head, escaping the start of a new day. He had no desire to start this one. He catches a glimpse of the clock—12:33. He's been lying there for two hours, staring blankly first at the nightstand and then at the white, rough ceiling. He needs to get to the bathroom. At least I need to wash up... Maybe that would make me feel better? He struggles to sit up on the edge of the bed. John hesitates. He used to be able to chase criminals with Sherlock. And now—even his own body seems unwieldy. Even standing up seems impossible... Come on. Just a few steps. I can do it. Just a few steps... His throat is terribly dry, and the sticky saliva is hard to swallow. He reaches for a glass on the bedside table. John barely reaches it, but there's only enough water for a couple of sips. After downing it all in one gulp, he drops the glass with a crash—it shatters loudly. The shards scatter across the room, reflecting the light like tiny stars. I should tidy up... someday . Watson examines the trash on the floor. The first thing he notices is a pile of scattered things. Clothes, books, some papers... But the largest pile is hidden in the far corner of the room. John hasn't cleaned for several days... or maybe not. A week? Two? Maybe even a month. He looks at his feet: one still has a sock on, the other has disappeared. Yesterday? Last week? He can't remember at all. The doctor had long since lost track of time. His life had literally been divided into "before" and "after." He smiles wryly at this conclusion, realizing it only happens in movies. One... Two... Three... He rises slowly. His head is spinning—he immediately looks around for his cane. But it's gone... He hasn't picked it up in a long time. Ever since he discovered he could live perfectly well without it. Let everyone say I only have psychopathic pain, but I know for a fact that my knee is aching like hell. Oh, damn! Watson moves through the living room to the kitchen. As always, everything is in place, just as Sherlock left it. John may have hated clutter and constantly cursed the detective, but now every pile of paper and cup is a reminder of his friend, right before his eyes. I know I could have saved him. But I couldn't... Every time he passes this room, he feels a terrible pang of guilt. It cuts like a blade through something—slowly and painfully. Every object reminds him of bygone days. The air still seems thick with Holmes's presence. He should air the room... But the doctor is still afraid—afraid of losing the last thing he has left. With great difficulty, John goes to the window and lifts the curtains. He notices several people outside—journalists, apparently waiting for him. How I hate them! He quickly draws the curtains back, shutting out the outside world, unwilling to see those who are trying to profit from someone else's grief. Then John notices the sheets of paper neatly pinned to the wall above the sofa, a reminder that Sherlock hasn't finished the Moriarty case. He fought him for so long, only to die like this? For what? How could he do such a thing? How could he die like this? Hadn't he even thought about those he truly cared about him? Every step sends a pain through his chest. He cann't even hold his gaze—the memories are too intense. Overcoming his composure, Watson finally makes it to the kitchen, where chaos reigned. Hundreds of dirty cups lay scattered across every surface, desperately clinging to each other to keep from falling. John makes his way to the refrigerator and opened it—it is absolutely empty. His stomach rumbles loudly and pitifully. He hasn't eaten anything since yesterday. He's been living on whatever he could find in the pantry, and he has been eating less and less. I need to go to the store... I'll do that today... Or... Or tomorrow. John hasn't left the house since the funeral of his best friend — the one who gave him a chance to believe in life again. The one who supported him, even if he seemed completely cold and indifferent to everyone and everything. Bathroom... Yes, I need to go there. He turns on the light. There's a slight dampness. On the sink stands a lone bar of soap, two toothbrushes, and forgotten tubes of toothpaste. John wipes the mirror, clouded with dust and fingerprints, with his palm. He looks at his terrible reflection, which he doesn't recognize. Dark circles have appeared under his eyes. His skin is gray and dull. The spark that once marked him as alive has faded. The man doesn't hope that it will ever rekindle like a firework. Of course, miracles are still possible, but his wish for Sherlock's resurrection is impossible. Running his palm over his cheek, he feels a coarse stubble that has already grown, which should be shaved off. He takes the razor in his left hand, but immediately drops it in the sink, not daring to touch his beard. His hands are shaking, and he doesn't understand why. He turns on the tap with difficulty, hoping the water will bring him back to life... but relief doesn't come. He breathes heavily—too heavily for a normal inhalation. His damp palm slides through his long hair, but it doesn't make it any easier to breathe. The first tear rolls down his cheek, disappearing into his beard. Then a second, then a third. He's crying. He's held on all this time, refusing to let himself show even a second of weakness.

"Boys don't cry..."—that's what they say.

Perhaps only those who have never known true grief say that.