Discharged.
It's been a few weeks since I got back from Afghanistan. Discharged for a mental illness. My therapist says I have schizophrenia. She says Sherlock isn't real; he's just in my head. I don't care. I like him anyway.

An old friend of mine from university, Mike Stamford, helped me find a flat. The landlady is a little old woman named Mrs Hudson. She's very sweet and benevolent and makes me tea and biscuits sometimes.

Sherlock Holmes.
I'd always had imaginary friends growing up. Even into my teen years, I still had friends that no one else could see or talk to. My parents had me put in a hospital when I was in secondary school. They thought I was crazy. After that my invisible companions went away. I didn't see any of them for years. But sometimes, I could hear voices...whispers. I never told a soul because I knew if I did they might lock me up in one of those loony bins again.

The first time I saw Sherlock was a few months after I went to Afghanistan. I'd just gotten out of college, barely twenty-six and suddenly, here I was invading Afghanistan. I was afraid.

What am I doing here? I don't even know how to fire this gun. I'm going to die.

Then I saw him. Sherlock. He told me I'd be alright. He told me everything would be okay. And I couldn't help but trust the way he looked at me with those sapphire eyes and that mess of perfect curls on his head.

Sherlock believed in me, and I believe in Sherlock.

Mrs Hudson.
Mrs Hudson is the only person who doesn't think I'm completely mad. Sometimes she comes up to the flat and makes tea for us (she even makes a cup for Sherlock). She listens when I tell her all about Sherlock and how wonderful he is. She lets me tell her about his latest experiment and sometimes Sherlock will play something he's composed on his violin for us. But after tea, she goes back downstairs to her flat with a sad smile on her face and I can tell she doesn't believe in Sherlock. No one does.

Violin.
Sherlock likes to play his violin all night, into the early hours of the morning. He hardly ever sleeps and sometimes he keeps me up all night by playing his violin.

Today, I got angry at Sally because she said Sherlock wasn't real. I told her to sod off and she told me I belonged in a nuthouse. Greg took my side and told her to leave, so she stormed out of the flat, calling me a lunatic. Greg apologised for her like he always does and left the flat after her, leaving me alone with Sherlock. I started to cry and Sherlock played soft lullabies on his violin until I fell asleep.

It's a pity that no one else can hear Sherlock play his violin. He plays beautifully.

Stop and Stare.
Strangers stare at us a lot. Sherlock and I. They can't see Sherlock though; they think it's just me they're staring at. They think I talk to myself.

I don't talk to myself; that would be ridiculous.

My therapist says that when I talk to Sherlock I am talking to myself, but I don't believe her. She says Sherlock is a fictional person I made up like a character in a book. It's not true though. It can't be. He can't be me, we're just too different. He's mysterious and clever and sometimes he says rude things to me. He doesn't realise it when he's being rude though, so it's not his fault. He just can't tell sometimes. But I'm good at knowing things you should and shouldn't say in front of people. I'm not very clever like him either. I'm smart but I'm not clever. There's a difference; Sherlock explained it to me.

Smart is when you know stuff. I know stuff. I'm a doctor; I know anatomy, biology, and all sorts of other –ologies.

Clever is when you can figure stuff out, like solving puzzles or being able to tell the quality of a marriage by how often their wedding band gets cleaned. Sherlock is clever. Smart is all about resources; clever is about brainpower.

Lonely.
I asked Sherlock today if he ever gets lonely with just me around to keep him company. He said he doesn't mind. Sherlock doesn't like people much, really anyway.

I don't really talk to any of my friends anymore. Sometimes Lestrade comes over to see me, but he doesn't bring Sally along anymore. Instead he brings Anderson. Sherlock doesn't like Anderson at all. He says Anderson is dumb enough to lower the IQ of the entire street every time he opens his mouth. I told Anderson that the other day and he got angry with me. I must've forgotten that it's rude to call people stupid.

Maybe Sherlock and I aren't too different after all.

Mrs Hudson doesn't come by for tea as often as she used to either. I'm worried I've said something rude to her as well. I asked her today at tea, just to be sure. She assured me I hadn't said anything that hurt her feelings. I felt a little bit better.

Sometimes I wish I had more friends. Sometimes I feel lonely. I don't know what I'd do without Sherlock though. I think he might be my only friend in the world.

Panic.
I had a horrific panic attack today.

I went out to the grocery store and Sherlock wasn't with me. When I came back to the flat, he wasn't there either. I was frightened. Had I driven him away too? Just like all the others? Had Sherlock finally had enough of me and moved on to find himself another schizophrenic army doctor to move in with?

Found.
Sherlock was here again this morning. Thank God.

Fading.
Sometimes when I look at Sherlock he's transparent, like a ghost.
Sometimes he speaks to me and I look up at him but he's not there.

My therapist says it's good. She says it means I'm making progress. I shouted at her at our last meeting. It's not good; he's my only friend and I'm losing him. She doesn't understand. Why would she? I'm just another one of her wacko patients.
I came home from therapy that day and lied down on the couch and started to break down into tears. I don't want Sherlock to go. I need him.

He comforts me when I cry, puts a hand on my shoulder and tells me it'll be alright. I curl up on the sofa and he crawls behind me, putting his arm over me protectively.

"I don't want you to leave me," I say in a small voice, wiping tears from my cheek. He looks at me sadly and kisses my cheek. "I wish you were real," I say.

Gone.
This morning Sherlock was gone.

I have a feeling he won't be coming back this time.

The flat feels empty. My therapist says I need to find someone or something to fill the emptiness. But how do you fill the void left by something that never existed?

Sherlock would know;
He's clever.