"The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street"

These words ring in my head as I sit here alone at that very address. The only difference? He's not here. He's gone. Gone from this world forever. Never to return. Sherlock Holmes my companion, my best friend, is... gone. I can't believe it. I'm alone again. With nothing but a bloody military salary, and a sympathetic landlady. I still remember him, shooting out the wall whenever he was bored. Which was quite often. I used to hate it, but truly, now, I miss it. So, in my head he still remains. With a question: why? Why did he do it? Why did he fall? Perhaps he had been defeated by that evil bastard Moriarty. Perhaps he felt he had met his match. But, no, no! This is Sherlock Holmes! He would never surrender to Moriarty. So the question still remains. Why. I suppose I'll never understand because, he's gone. Every day I say to myself, "Now what in bloody hell will make me get out of bed today?" And the saddest thing? Remembering him telling me that he was most certainly not a hero. You know what I say? Bloody hell to that. You saved lives, Sherlock. Conquered feats that others only dreamed of. Sherlock Holmes. The brilliant detective. The genius. The hero. The miracle worker. I owe you so much. Just one more thing, just one miracle for me, please. Don't. Be. Dead. Can you do that for me, please? Just stop it. Stop... this. Because I, John Watson, am lost without you.