Doctor’s Note


Fez 2







Dear Sherlock Who,

I know everyone says this, but I really do mean it. It’s not you, it’s me.

How to explain? It was great at first. How could it not have been? You had everything: cracking one liners, amazing taste in tweed, and cheekbones I could etch glass with. You had that little bit of glamour, and I was seduced.

It was more than the looks and the wits and the neckwear, though.  I blush a bit to admit it, but I think the real reason I fell for you in the beginning, is you appealed to my ego.

Remember saying this?

‘Of course not, you aren’t afraid of anything, box falls out of the sky, man falls out the box, now he’s opposite you eating fishy custard and you just sit there.  Know what I think? Must be one hell of a scary crack in your wall.’

You made me feel brave.

Remember walking away from the hospital while that triumphant music played, and your brother said our names one after the other over the top of it?  You made me feel powerful.

You made me feel special. This is going to sound goofy, but you made me feel like a hero.

I suppose it was inevitable that it couldn’t last – I mean, no one can feel special forever, right?  And I probably could have gotten used to it only, well, then there was the whole lying thing.

People do say, don’t they, that that’s a bad sign in any relationship, the lying? Especially when it’s not the “that moustache really suits you” sort of lie, but more the, well, the ‘I’m dead’ sort of a lie.

And not to put too fine a point on it Dr Holmes, but you do seem to tell that particular lie rather a lot.

I can’t say I wasn’t warned.  I was, plenty of times. Someone who’s known you a lot longer than me told me: ‘Rule one: The Doctor lies.’  You yourself even called yourself a sociopath. Only, when you and she told me these things you said them with a sort of wry smile, like they were good things, endearing little foibles, and I just sort of laughed them off.

I really, really don’t know why.

But the thing is, Sherloctor, I don’t feel like a hero any more. You’re too smart, and too secretive and you spend too much time leaving me in the dark. If the idea of a hero is that one person can make a difference, the idea behind you seems to be that us children should get out the way and let the grown-up handle it, and that’s just… not inspiring.

Like I said, it’s not you. It’s me. It’s that your kind of heroism doesn’t leave any room for me.  I don’t feel like a hero any more, and I miss it.

So I’m off.  I’ve found a phone box and a magnifying glass and a  tin of (green) paint and I’ve got an elementary knowledge of the crimey-whimey stuff.  I expect I’ll find my way – I learn fast and I’ve got a lot of friends who’ll help me out. Plus, we’ve been running into those angels so often that I’m getting really good at not blinking, so don’t worry about me.

Cheerio then, thanks for everything. It was a blast while it lasted. Try not to actually fall off any buildings while I’m gone.

By the way,  I hope you don’t mind, I took your hat.

Yours (heroically)

Amy Watson.


(Thanks to Jon Courtenay Grimwood for ‘Crimey Whimey’)

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