NOTE: I'm scared as heck. I kept putting off submitting anything because my lack of self-confidence has been getting in the way. Not sure if I should butcher this story and call it quits or not. It currently has 3,237 words, but I'm submitting chapters at a time to see how people react to it. I know there are already a ton of stories of how Sherlock returns, but I needed to get my idea down to help settle my thoughts; while basing it slightly more on the original story in which Sherlock returns(titled "The Empty House"). Teehee! ^u^; Tell me if you want to see more of this pitiful attempt!
They had all been asking questions. The public, the reporters-Why wouldn't they? Sure, they laid off a lot as the years past, but they still pestered me when they couldn't find a good enough story to keep them entertained. Why wouldn't they want to know if Sherlock Holmes was indeed a murderer or not; why he snapped if he was one; if he was alive and I if helped him escape so he could live somewhere un-condemned- I chose to ignore them. Exactly what he would have done.
I suppose he rubbed off on me more than I'd care to admit. Since his death, I had moved away from 221B Baker Street. I wanted to put as much space in between me and my memories of that place, and the high-functioning sociopath I had as a flat mate. Sure, I'd pop by once in awhile to say hello to Mrs. Hudson, but the most I did otherwise was look nostalgically up the stairs to the flat up above. Mrs. Hudson didn't dare to lay even a finger on anything in that flat, I presumed. The dust on the stairs was something that could choke vacuum cleaners. It's been hard not to trudge right up those stairs, slam open the door, and hope he'd be standing there, his tall figure silhouetted against the window panes, staring out into the street while he rosined his bow. But, the thing is, I saw him die. With my own eyes. I know he's gone, but part of me refuses to believe it, clinging to the false hope he'd come back from the dead.
Lestrade still occasionally emailed or texted me, asking for my assistance with crimes. He knew it helped take my mind off of things, just like it used to for Sherlock. I was more than happy to oblige, but sometimes I turned around in my chair to tell Sherlock we had a case—but he wouldn't be there to smirk and say his infamous catchphrase, "The game is on!"
It was a late afternoon when Lestrade and I started exchanging emails and texts about a particularly interesting murder. A politician, whom had just about as much good of luck in politics as in love; was found murdered in his home. Apparently, he had quite the gambling problem as well—meaning he probably had a nice long list of enemies, consisting of everyone from people with different political views to ex-lovers who wanted revenge. It was pretty easy to cross certain names off the list, what with the politician being killed by an excellent crack shot. Ex-lovers; most definitely a negative, unless he was into people with high caliber weapons and great aim. I was stuck, I couldn't figure out who had a good enough motive for this murder that didn't have a good enough alibi.
I woke up with printed out emails and case papers still in hand, sunlight streaming through the window. "I always forget to put the blinds down," I muttered to myself as I covered my eyes with one arm and rose to close them. My phone buzzed. I tapped the screen to read the text I had received.
We got another weirdo playing Sherlock again. He keeps insisting he's the real deal, the poor bugger. Why don't we meet up at Angelo's to discuss the case? -GL
I took a deep breath and sighed as I shook my head. "People can only wish they were as good as he was." I quickly threw on my trusty-old black jacket and took a cab to Angelo's.