The phone rings for a while on the other end, before it finally connects through.
Harry? He's dead.
I know, John. I saw it on the news and everyone's talking about it.
You've got to believe me on this. It was real. He was real. The detective work, the cases, he didn't make them up. You believe me don't you Harry?
Oh, you numpty! No-one can be that clever! All your blog posts, all your entries in the counsellor's notebooks, they'll just go down in history as works of fiction. They're just stories aren't they, brother?
Don't you get it?! No, you can't ever get it. You can't ever understand. How my life was before Sherlock. How my life was with Sherlock, by his side, back doing something, something good, yes, something dangerous, but that was the best part, the exhilaration. With my best friend.
You can never understand how my life will be now that he is gone, Harry.
You. Are. Bonkers! All that fighting, all that death it's gone to your head, John! No wonder you're back in counselling sessions.
You're back on the drink aren't you?
That's right, Johnny boy, everyone's drinking either to the death of Jim or to the death of Sherlock. Soon I won't be able to tell the difference. I don't know, they both wear suits. You should give it a go; drown out those sorrows and that wild imagination of yours.
No. I can't. I don't want it to be like that.
The sound of John sobbing can be heard down the phone.
John? I –
He ends the call and the line goes dead on Harriet's side.