"Alright, then. I suppose you're wondering why I've called you all here today."
The middle-aged forensics tech set his cup of tea down on the coffee table. Scanning the room, he quickly sized up the crowd. Twelve or so people: some students, some homeless, some ordinary folk—all in the same room, for the same reason. The room quieted as he began to speak.
"A year ago today, a great tragedy happened. The world lost the most incredible genius of our time." His throat swelled with grief. Clearing it, he continued. "That—that genius was Sherlock Holmes. He was…well, he was brilliant. He could look at anything—a crime scene, a corpse, a person on the Tube—and tell you more than you ever cared to know. More than you ever thought possible to know."
Anderson's hands shook as he spoke. He had called them here—all of them—to make amends. Oh, he had been so stupid. So jealous. He had played right into Moriarty's plan. He'd watered the seed planted by the master criminal: the seed of doubt that had bloomed, bright red and brilliant, on the pavement outside of St. Barts.
Picking up his teacup once more, he clenched it desperately, willing his hands to stop shaking.
"A year ago today, Sherlock Holmes died. But his memory lives on, with us and with every person who sleeps more soundly because of something he did. The papers—well, you know what all the papers said about him. But we're here today because, in time, we've come to know the truth. Sherlock Holmes," he choked out, "was no fake. He was real. Moriarty was real. It was all real. And he deserves to be remembered."
Slowly, from where she sat curled in a corner armchair, a raggedy homeless girl began to clap, until a thunderous roll of applause roared through the room.
The group continued meeting—on weekends, on bank holidays, whenever they needed each other. Some began coming in costume: a deerstalker, a scarf, a long billowy coat—tokens of remembrance all.
They called themselves the Baker Street Irregulars, though they didn't meet anywhere near Baker Street.
Often, they swapped stories about the great consulting detective. The indigent members of the group spoke with great fondness about all times Sherlock had brought them food, or cash, or coats in exchange for information. "He brought me mittens once, when it was really cold," an ashy-haired tunnel dweller shared. "They've unravelled quite a bit but—look—I still keep them anyway," she said, holding up her hands.
Some days, they sat silent for hours, lips pressed closed under the weight of glory and grief.
One day, two or so years after their first meeting, the group gathered for tea. The room hummed with their unceasing idle chatter.
All around the room, their phones buzzed in unison.
"Oh, my god," a girl intoned, staring at her phone.
Anderson fished his phone out of his pocket. Glancing at the screen, he muttered. "I hate it when he does that."