I stared down into the abyss of the steep cliff. I saw nothing, only the raging river down below, sweeping any remains of my friend into its waters.
Looking deep down there, I felt an immense pain that I could barely describe. It just felt like the inside of me was hollow, nonexistent, as if the death of Holmes had taken out my organs.
The death of Holmes. Thinking those words made them real.
Sherlock Holmes. Avid smoker, wonderful violinist, excellent reasoning machine, agile swordsman, strong boxer, loyal friend, and perfect consulting detective. Who he was – who he will never again be, perhaps because of my mistake.
When I blundered, he always looked at me with a kind gaze in his usually cold eye, a gaze that said "You are gullible, yes, but you are my friend, Watson, and those mistakes you will make, and I will try to help you through them." Always teaching me, always there for me – he never will be – no more Holmes of 221B Baker Street, no more chilling adventures at night.
I would never see his long, thin figure, or his hawk-like profile smoking, deep in thought. The very thought of no more Holmes was horrifying. His deer stalker hat would be no more.
"Holmes!" I cried to the rushing river, only to hear my own echo.
I sank to my knees and buried my head into my arms. Holmes was no more, and though life would go on, it would go on without interest, complete monotony.