The cynic inside me is wondering what use any of this is. It's the same anywhere, everywhere. Sadness, grief, mourning, shock, the fucking ache that seems to have calmed down on minute only to take you by surprise the next. It's all the same. And really, all human emotion is the same. It's why I try my damndest never to post anything personal. I will lap up anything personal by the people I like, but my own personal anguish or happiness seems supremely boring and pointless and generally, who cares, one day I'm going to die and it will all mean nothing. Only writing that is good/funny/engaging/moving has any point.
But I can't get past this. Again, nothing new -- I only got the news yesterday, in fact almost 24 hours. So maybe all I have to do is wait until the first sharp grief can take its course and the dull ache stage arrives.
But I can't. I keep bursting into tears and sobbing my eyes out. I know she's in a better place. This world is not that awesome to begin with. She must be in a better place.
Still, I need to try and deal with this here. I can't keep inflicting this on her brother -- God knows what he's going through, and yet he's been unbelievably tolerant of my hysterical replies to his email.
She'd just gotten herself a tumblr -- two actually, a personal one and a fannish one, and she was happy she managed to secure her preferred fannish name. I don't know it it's SStar or another name, because she had another account before her Sherlock fanfiction which was close enough to SStar. I meant to reply and tell her how ambitious to get two tumblrs at once, and I wanted to tell her about the disappointing limitations I discovered when I set up a secondary tumblr, but I never got around to it. We were both sick, we had asthma, she had work appraisal stuff to be done for her people, I had two sick girls with fevers and crazy work deadlines.
I mean, I can't... One of the joys of Tumblr for me was her random anon asks after which she would tell me it was her, and her mentions of various posts and gifs in our emails. We would perv over Mark or Mycroft together, we would discuss headcanons, we would talk about Tumblr users and my crush and she would have me in fits with her effortless snark over everything under the sun.
My browser is set up to open to a particular set of pages, one of which is Tumblr. I'm working, and when Tumblr loaded I saw some new gifs of Mark on my dash -- she never commented on Mark's Mumbai trip, and I wondered how on earth she of all people would have nothing to say, after we perved the heck out of all Mark's other appearances. She was no longer here, that's why. And now there's a new gif set of Mark on my dash from the Mumbai trip with his pink socks and I can't... I don't understand how it can circulate and get likes and reblogs and everything when SStar is no longer here to see it. She's not going to see all the spoilery pics when they start shooting the special. She's not going to watch the special. She's not going to finish her Beard fic that we did so much research for, she's not going to finish Take My Breath Away... She's not going to finish our fic which was born in one of our email conversations and that we wrote together. She's not going to read the fic I spent all day Thursday, Christmas day, working on so I could finish and gift it to her, damn it. I can't get over the fact that I spent a big part of Christmas eve and most of Christmas working on that fic so I could have it ready by New Year's for her, and I was happy and humming and glad I finally had time, the girls were a little less sick, I was less sick, work was a little less hysterical, I've wanted to gift her a fic for so long, she gifted me two, and not just because of that but because I love her and I wanted to make her happy.
And all the time she wasn't even here! She wasn't here.
Her funeral's on Monday. Her brother very kindly offered to give me all the details in case I wanted to attend. He thinks I live in the UK as well. Oh, SStar, what I'd give to be able to say goodbye in person, to tell you I will never forget you and that many other fans of yours who saw my post on Tumblr said they were very sad and that the fandom has lost one of its best writers. I wish I could. I wish I could, my dear, kind, generous, sweet, kickass, snarky friend. I miss you terribly. I will miss you terribly. I want to tell your brother to give you that message from me. I have no idea if it's insensitive or rude or the done thing or not the done thing... I don't know. He said from your inbox and sent folder I meant a lot to you. You meant so, so, so much to me too. I don't know what happens after death. Can you hear me? Can you see me? Will you visit me? Will you at least come in a dream and tell me what to do with the writing your brother has so generously decided to honor me with? Should we, fuck, fuck, should I post our fic? Should I post my part in it? I never told you the solution that occurred to me for our problem with the heroine's age. I know you would've loved it. If I lived in the UK I'd ask your brother to give me the actual notebooks rather than scanning them, I had no idea you scribbled things by hand too, you never scribbled that plot bunny that came to you in a dream, you forgot all about it and I was all why didn't you write it down the minute you woke up?
Oh, SStar. I miss you so much. You know what the worst part is? I already know life has to go on. I can't believe it, I can't believe it's actually possible for me to one day sit down and write a fic or watch Sherlock or go on Tumblr or perv over Mark. I have the awful suspicion that it will happen, which feels like such a filthy betrayal on my part. I don't know. Maybe it won't. I can't imagine touching any of my fics now. The only fic I want to finish and polish is ours, my part in it.
I don't hate Mary anymore. She was a trigger, I hated her so much. Not anymore. You loved her so much, you awesome queen of snark. An anon once sent me an ask commenting on that. That I called you the Mistress of Snark. And astonishingly un-repetitve, hot smut that always boggled my mind. How can you write scenes with the same body parts, the same limited number of positions/uses for those body parts, and yet make it new and fresh and sexy and white hot and tender every single time.
I finally summoned up the courage to go back to Sherlock's POV of the Fever. You'll never read that. I can't imagine touching it. I wrote so much and was so happy thinking how it would make you laugh, you always said my Sherlock made you laugh.
Only you would joke in one of your last emails to me about from-behind-the-veil telepathic jokes. Only you, you big ball of snark.
I wish I could muster the courage to ask your brother exactly what day you passed away. If I've done the maths right then the last time we spoke was only a couple of days before that. He said you passed away peacefully in your sleep. Did you get the appraisal done for all the staff? Did you empty all your bins like you said you would?
I can't... I mean this time last year we hadn't even met. We hadn't even met. We were alive, we were crazy about Sherlock and we were trying to find the patience to wait the few more days until Season 3 aired, and we watched Season 3 and squealed and sobbed and fangirled and read Holmescest and we never knew each other. And now I miss you terribly, and I can't imagine writing again, and your brother tells me he thinks from your email I meant a lot to you. I love you so, so much. I will never forget you. I will never forget you.
I am so lucky to have met you and known you and grown so incredibly close to you in such a short period. I love you, SStar. Come and haunt me, come and visit me in my dreams with your snark and your flirtatious Sherlock and your irresistible Mycroft and your sweetness and your kindness that you always tried to refuse was part of you. I miss you so much. So many good times, wonderful times, writing together and joking and criticizing and perving and talking and just being friends, my dear, dear friend. Rest in peace, my beloved friend. Rest in peace. Rest in peace.