Two weeks have passed since then. They say he was a fake, that he was the one who made the cases he cracked and that he killed himself out of either guilt or because he saw no way out of the situation. They are wrong. He is a genius. No, was a genius. It is still so hard to think of him in past tense, to think of him as de-.
It has been a while now and the flat still looks the same. Every corner of it looks as though he will be returning any minute. I haven't been able to bring myself to cleaning it yet. It seems more official to think of throwing out all of his experiments and general chaos.
Going out to the stores are harder now knowing that I only have myself to shop for. Reading the news and watching the telly are harder now, what with seeing his name and face everywhere. They all have something to say about him or to me. To mock or mourn him, there seems to be quite enough of both. I wish they wouldn't say anything. I don't want to be reminded of him. I want to forget. Or rather go on remembering him as he was truthfully.
In Sherlock Holmes I'll always believe.