Chapter: 1 (I don't own Sherlock)
"One more thing," the man in the blue plaid shirt turned around to face the black stone once more. It was clear that he was uncomfortable. He didn't seem to be sure who, or what he was talking to. So he stood there in the middle of the cemetery, starring at the ominous headstone. His eyes were closed, as if they were being weighed down by the body below his feet.
"One more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me," he rushed his words as though the stone was retreating, turning its back on him, much like his friend had done. Perhaps his wish was to spill the words out, to leave behind the stone and the troubling memories, and move on with his life.
"Don't," he said slowly and heavily, his eyebrows rose and his sad eyes looked at the golden letters of the name.
"Be." The eyebrows rose in accordance with his slow speech.
"Dead," he choked out the last word and quickly quivered backwards, almost as if the body would rise up from the ground.
His breath quivered and he looked down at the ground, towards his feet. Ashamed that he was asking so much of a dead man: a dead friend.
"Just stop it," he shook his head and pleaded with the stone. John Watson pleaded and begged the stone to give him his friend back, but the friend was dead. Sherlock Holmes was no more.
As John walked away from the stench of death, my phone proceeded to ring. I looked at the name sprawled across the scene then back at the distant figure of my former friend: my former life. I touched the button and her small voice came out of the dark plastic.
"Hel-," her voice was cut short.
"I am telling him," I told her, and before the protest began I turned the phone off.
"John Watson, get ready to meet Joseph Bailey," I whispered under my breath.