"He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him."
I stare blankly at the eleven words printed on the screen, my brain barely registering that I am their author, barely registering that the random combinations of letters swimming in my now-blurred vision are even words. Angry with myself for getting so worked up, I grab a handkerchief from my pocket and dab at my wet eyes.
Ella was wrong. Way back when, she told me keeping a blog would help. Right load of good it's done this time. I stare at the date of the fateful entry – 16th June. It's been…three months? Three years? I don't even know. Time has almost ceased to exist since then. And the rest of the entries, they just serve as painful reminders, reminders of fantastical adventures that I couldn't dare to dream up on my own and will never have the likes of again. Nevermore will I race through the streets of London on a trail invisible to Scotland Yard, or remain astonished long after a stroke of brilliance has connected the links in a convoluted chain of clues that only one man could ever hope to see. All I know now is these eleven words – a pitifully feeble epitaph for one so great, and yet, deep down in my heart of hearts, I know that I will never, ever stop believing in Sherlock Holmes.