I’m feeling this one today, unedited, in all its 2012 glory.

Title: Ghost Six Senses
Summary: After Reichenbach Sherlock grieves.

I saw the Rolls Royce advert and had to smile. Ghost Six Senses. It reminded me of you. Pearlescent. Bespoke. Champagne and caviar. You and your ghost. You, because you are a ghost. And you make your presence known at every opportunity. Even when you aren't being obvious, I can, yes, sense you.

Auditory

I hear you. I hear you all the fucking time. I know, though, that it is not really you, just the damage done by your exit. My ears ring. I hear bangs that aren't there. I hear the click of trigger and the snap of my eardrums. Your head cracking on the pavement. Hell, my head cracking on the pavement. My heart fucking splintering. Ugly sound.

Tactile

I get these headaches. (See aforementioned gunshots and head cracks.) And I hate them because they make me nauseated. They fuck with my vision. And I hate them because they, well, because they hurt. But I've stopped taking medication for them. I've stopped going to bed when they come on. I just sit there and ask for you. And your fingertips are there on my temples; gently massaging or applying pressure, you always know what I need.

God, you did always know what I needed.

Visual

Strobes. Visual Snow. Blacked out peripheral view. (See aforementioned vision-fuck.) This pisses me right off. This interferes with my work. But even more irritating is when the world is closing in, I see you wandering by. I fucking see you standing there or walking down the hall. Like I wouldn't recognize your clothes. Or you in my clothes. Do ghosts even wear clothes? Maybe I should revisit that medication option.

Olfactory

You have always smelled like colour to me. The colour of damp. The colour of the thicket. The way the forest smells when the seasons are changing. Just...like a man. You still fucking smell like a man. So pungent, at times, it stings my eyes. Or I just fucking cry because I want to cry.

I blame it on those headaches.

Gustatory

I vomit a lot now. (See aforementioned nausea.) Everything I put in my mouth tastes metallic. The fucking iron in your blood. You prick.

6

I think of you and you're there. I know that can't be described as a sixth sense or even much of anything short of delusion or brain damage, but fuck if it's not comforting.

They say the devil is 6 and if I'm conjuring you up I guess the devil is me. But I miss you.

I miss you.

I think I'm getting another headache...