By the time I returned to the hospital he was in the roof. Sherlock. Standing on the edge. He called me. Tried to convince me that he was a fake. That everything they had said about him was true. I wouldn’t believe it. I still won’t. He was being forced to say it. Had to say it.
Then he jumped.
I owe him so much. I needed him. I still do.
But he’s gone.
He told me once that I shouldn’t make people into heroes. He said that heroes didn’t exist and that even if they did he wouldn’t be one of them.
Which goes to show. He wasn’t always right about everything.