There's a flat in London, down on Baker Street; 221B.
To any passer-by this is just an ordinary flat, in an ordinary neighborhood. But to those few who knew, those very special few, this flat is so much more. It is a haven. It is a treasure trove of memories. If you happen to enter the flat, and climb the stairs, you might chance upon seeing one of these few.
A middle aged man, holding a briefcase or umbrella, perhaps. An elderly woman, with a tea tray. Or possibly an older gentleman with blond hair, wearing a jumper, and holding a walking cane.
If you ever stumble upon the latter of the three, you might see him sitting in his favorite chair; cane leaning against the arm rest. He might be staring off into the distance; remembering a time when all was right in the world.
The chair opposite him, the black leather arm chair, sits empty. You don't know why this is significant, but it is. It is very much significant to the man in the jumper.
It stands as a reminder.
A reminder that not all stories have a happy ending. That Good doesn't always conquer Evil. That sacrifices must be made.
It's a reminder of a man. A good man; even if he was loathe to admit it. And a dear friend. His best friend. The man that knew him better than he knew himself.
Sherlock Holmes. The world's only Consulting Detective, and the last.
It has been almost a year now. A year since Sherlock's death. You might have read about it in the papers. The Fraud. The Fake Detective. You might have bought into the stories. You might not have- it doesn't really matter where you stand. What matters is that this man, John- for that is his name- never did believe those stories.
Sherlock could never have lied to him. In his mind, Sherlock would always be the man who knew everything. The super genius who could take one look at you and know everything about you; from what you had for breakfast, to the name of your cat.
Amazing. That's what he was. Just... amazing.
You may think John is in denial, and maybe he is. But it's that faith; that blind faith in the man he's come to call his best friend, that keeps him going.
Sure, the limp is back. And yes, so are the nightmares. But he's not going to give up. As long as he believes in Sherlock Holmes, he will never give up. Because he is strong. Strong at heart.
And he will wait.
Wait for the day his friend comes back to him. Because as long as he remembers, Sherlock will never truly die.
Sometimes, when it's raining, or particularly dark outside, you can see a man standing outside the flat. He looks up at the window, but never goes inside. He just stands there, as if he's waiting for something.
I cannot tell you what, but I'll tell you this:
I believe in Sherlock Holmes.