They always say there's going to be a happy ending to every story. But when I saw him teeter forwards, standing precariously on the line between life and death, I knew this was a lie.
The fall seemed to take an eternity. His body fell so slowly, coat billowing out behind it. It was so surreal, I could have sworn I was dreaming. I prayed that I was.
I've never prayed before in my life.
But in that moment, between the shaky sound of his last words and the dull thud of his body hitting the pavement, I prayed harder than I'd ever have thought possible. I prayed that Sherlock would, by some miracle, live.
But I felt the cold, still limpness of his wrist. I saw his twisted form on the sidewalk, all black and white except for a growing puddle of red beneath his messy tangle of hair. There was so much blood.
I never thought he could bleed.
He'd always been invincible; there wasn't a single mystery he couldn't solve. I don't believe for a heartbeat that he really was a fake. I don't care what sort of proof they throw at me. I saw the gears in his mind spin at a breakneck speed when everyone else had given up. I saw the way his eyes moved, back and forth, back and forth, deciphering the puzzles the rest of us could not see. I saw his lips purse and form words meaningless to everyone but him as he tracked down a lead like a bloodhound chasing a fox.
Sherlock Holmes was not fake, not any more than the gravestone that now marks his legacy. Sometimes I wonder if he's solving divine crimes, or if he's already infuriated God enough to be thrown to Hell. I suppose I'll find out never know until I, too, have left this world. I know he'll be waiting for me, wrapped in a white sheet and keeping some disembodied organ in whatever kitchen appliance angels use to keep their food cold.
That will be my happy ending.