What exactly do you call Sherlock Holmes? A genius? An idiot? People don't find it hard calling him a freak. He pretends he doesn't care but I can tell he does. Each and every time, it hits him like a ton of bricks. He hides it well. He hides it like a machine would hide an error. Maybe that's what he is, a machine.

I've been helping him for years now. Holmes and Watson. Sherlock and John. The detective and his blogger. You usually see the last one on the front page of the newspapers. 'THE DETECTIVE AND HIS BLOGGER - MURDER SOLVED' was the most recent headline. 'They must be running out of clever titles' I thought to myself whilst finishing my toast. It didn't exactly take Sherlock Holmes to figure that one out.

I remember enjoying the silence but secretly wishing he'd break it with a clever deduction. Nothing. He wasn't acting normal. He wasn't acting like his normal cocky self. Something was wrong.

"Sherlock?" I asked. He didn't reply. He curled himself up in his chair and pretended to sleep. I knew he was pretending because Sherlock barely ever slept during the day. Actually, he barely slept at all.

I heard a faint sniff after a few minutes of silence. I walked over to his chair and knelt in front of him. He was hiding his face in the fabric of the chair. "Sherlock?" I asked again. My voice sounded weak. He still didn't respond.

I noticed a small piece of paper crumpled up in his right hand. I placed my hand over his and felt a small shock of electricity shoot through me. I wasn't a stranger to this as it happened every time I touched Sherlock Holmes. I had to focus. I turned his hand over and pulled the paper out of his hand. He was resistant at first but eventually gave in. I was tempted to drag my hand away from his but instead I held it tighter.

I slowly opened up the paper and immediately remembered where it was from. "Sherlock..." My voice trailed off as I realised I had no idea what I was going to say next. What could I say next? He found it.

"John," He replied. His voice was shaking as he continued, "why?"

"Why?" I said angrily. I'd lost control over my body. I didn't know what I was planning to say next but I knew it wouldn't be good. "Why do you think? I'm human! It's what some humans do. Not all, just some. Stress relief, I guess." My voice had calmed down but I still felt angry.

"When."

"When you jumped and every time I remembered it." I said as tears filled my eyes. I blinked them away quickly. I stood up so he couldn't see the pain in my eyes.

"Do you still do it?"

"Occasionally..."

"So, it's my fault then?"

"No..." I said slowly before realising it was, "well, yes. Sort of."

"Great. Okay, I won't fake my death again."

"Really?" I said sarcastically.

"What?"

"Just because you won't do it again doesn't mean I won't."

"Okay, then don't do it again."

"Oh wow. Great! I'm suddenly cured of my depression and everything's back to the way it was before you faked your death and I started self-harming. SHERLOCK, IT DOESN'T WORK LIKE THAT!" I shouted.

Sherlock sat up in his chair and turned to face me. The spark in his eyes was no longer there. I couldn't help feeling responsible.

"How does it work then?" He shouted back, "You're obviously more human than me so you should know."

"Can you stop being such a freak and be normal for once?" I shouted back. I realised what I said and regretted it immediately. "Sherlock... I... I didn't mean it..."

"You were the only one who never called me that." He replied, cutting of my apology.

"I didn't mean it Sherlock... I'm sorry. I'm so sorry... I was angry. I didn't know what I was saying..."

"John, you knew what you were saying and I know you meant it." That was all he said before walking out of the flat. And that was the last time I saw him.

He didn't say goodbye, he just left. The freak. My freak. Gone. Forever.