It was a brisk winter morning, snow just beginning to fall as the world's only Consulting Detective left his flat at 221B Baker Street. The cold went unnoticed by the man, save for a slight tug of his scarf, hoping for it to be tighter to keep the cold air off of his slender neck. He pulled out his mobile phone and sent a simple text, Meet me at Angelo's if convenient SH it read. Then afterwards if not, come anyway SH. He had been sending texts like that for a month now, all to the same number. Hoping to get a different response each time, but each time receiving the same response. The same meaning, no response at all. Generally the man would have stopped the texts after he had been getting no response after about five times. However he was on his tenth and had no plans of stopping any time soon.
Suddenly, his phone rang. His heart, which he had found he did indeed have within the last month, jumped in his throat as he looked down on the number, hoping it was the number he dearly wanted to see. Instead it was not, and bitter disappointment rose in the man's throat.
"Sherlock, have you any more news on the murder? We need something soon, it isn't like you to take so long." The voice on the other side of the phone asked.
"Lestrade, I don't have anything yet. Anyway, I'm on my way to meet with someone, someone I haven't seen in a long time." Sherlock sighed, absently playing with a loose button on his coat. He'd have to get Mrs. Hudson to fix it later, no doubt she'd groan about not being his housekeeper but oblige anyway to fix it.
"Sherlock, you've been going to these 'meetings' for the past month. Nobody is ever going to show up. I thought you much more of a realist than this." Lestrade chastised.
"I am a realist, however, I'm holding out hope like you said to. I'm taking your advice, Lestrade. Now if you'll excuse me I'm going to Angelo's." Sherlock said simply, pressing end call on his mobile phone when he said the last word. Hailing a taxi, he told the cabby the address and hopped into the taxi cab. Maybe I am holding out for nothing a part of him said, the rational part maybe. However, the other part of him said no, and to keep going on. Maybe one day they would show up at Angelo's.
When he arrived, he took his usual table and sat down and waited. And he waited. And he waited. Nobody showed up, as per usual. He sighed and stood up, disappointed that the other didn't show up, unsurprised, but disappointed nonetheless. Perhaps he was just going through the motions at that point, he wasn't truly expecting anyone to show up. He just did it, holding on to some vague thread of hope that maybe one day someone would show up.
He stood up and walked out, the snow had begun to fall at full force now, a blinding blanket of white. Maybe I could get lost in here, Sherlock thought, maybe I could just die. Would anyone miss me? Probably not, their silly little brains couldn't possibly handle why it was such a bad thing that I passed on. Maybe Mrs. Hudson would be sad. The idea had begun to sound better and better to the Consulting Detective as he walked on, ignoring the headlights of taxis preferring instead to just walk back to 221B.
On the way to his flat, however, he took a detour. Perhaps he would get some investigation on the murder done that night. First he stopped at a flowers stand and after paying, buying a bouquet of flowers. He didn't know what they were, things like that he deleted from his brain long ago. They weren't needed for him, they were irrelevant. After buying the flowers, he walked to the graveyard. He found the grave he was looking for, wiped the snow off the grave itself and tombstone and said.
"I'm sorry, John. I don't think I'll ever be able to solve this one." Sherlock laughed bitterly. "You always wondered if there was a murder case I'd find no joy in solving, well this is the one. I brought you flowers though, I remember you once said you liked flowers. I'm sorry John, I'm sorry I'm not able to solve this. I just wish you would show up at Angelo's. Why can't you just show up there?" He asked, a tear escaping from an eye. He stood at the grave for several more minutes, snow piling in his hair and on his jacket before walking off, tears beading at his eyes.