For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes didn't know what to say, think, or do.
The red and blue lights of the ambulances, the firetrucks, and the police cars made him dizzy as he looked into the ashen face of his best friend. Crying, Mary sat next to him on the cold pavement as she cradled her husband's bleeding head in her lap. She kept repeating his name, over and over again as rivers of tears flowed down her cheeks: "John. John. John." Sherlock had done all he could: called the ambulance, staunched the blood flow from the wound, made sure that John was consious so he couldn't slip away. But had he done all he could to find he and Mary in the first place? Obviously not.
I summed up the situation from where I stood, next to Sally Donovan and Detective Inspector Lestrade. This was my first call to a crime scene, but to me it wasn't that at all. It was the site for a party and then maybe a bonfire. "It's murder," Sally stated bluntly. "No," I replied. "It's great!" "Just because he's a villain and he was killed doesn't mean it's a good thing." I gestured franctically towards the dark haired man that was being tightly zipped up into a black body bag. "Donovan!" I cried, exhasperated. "That is the body of James Moriarty. He is dead. Dead. And you're saying we shouldn't celebrate?" Sally looked pointedly at me. "Look, Caller," she said. "Moriarty may have been a ruthless killer, but that doesn't mean he was a living person, and" "No, no," I interrupted, agitated now. Why couldn't she understand? "He-" I was cut short by a long, agonized scream that pierced my heart. I didn't know what was going on. Who had shrieked? Whoever it was, their voice was so full of pain and sorrow that I was terrified, yet sorely grieved at the same time. Lestrade made his way over to the group of two that surrounded the wounded man. He and the woman we had rescued, but the third had arrived when we had, determind to help in the mission. For some reason, Lestrade had let him, without any hesitation whatsoever. He looked familiar, so I had inquired. "What's your name, sir?" I asked, notebook in hand. It was, after all, procedure. He had looked stunned. "What?" he queried breathlessly. "Name, sir," I repeated."Sherlock Holmes," he replied. Then his eyes widened and he dashed to the two people being helped out of the building. "John!" he yelled at the top of his lungs. "Mary!"
"Detective Caller, what are you doing?" shouted Lestrade. "Procedure!" I yelped back, frightened. I would never admit this to anyone, but Detective Inspector Lestrade scared me more than anyone I'd ever met.
But enough of that. I'll continue with the story. At least, when I'm done, you'll have some idea of what happened. Where was I...?
Oh yes. The scream.
Upon hearing it, I ran as fast as I could over to Holmes and the victims of the fire. The ones that the firefighters had rescued. Unfortunately, they couldn't be of any help to the rescued people. One was perfectly fine. The other, I figured, was dying. That was why the paramedics hadn't brought them to the hospital. There was nothing they could possibly do.
The woman, Mary, was the one that had screamed. In fact, she was still screaming. Screaming that pain-filled, agonized scream that I could only just bear to listen to without breaking down and crying myself. Holmes was bent over the last man. John, I believe his name was. Holmes lifted his head for a split second, and I saw. Holmes was crying.
Then it all came to me. Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. Wasn't he the one that didn't have emotions, the one who was famous for divorcing himself from his feelings? I felt positive he was.
So why was he crying?
The answer came as soon as I saw John Watson's face, and without a doubt, I knew what had broken the great detective, what had caused the horrible screams.
He was dead.