I didn't go to the funeral. My time as a war-surgeon and a long exposure to Holmes' cold, hard logic have stripped me of any romantic sentiment of the afterlife. Even if they had found a body to put in that coffin it would not have been that of my dearest friend. It was the mind which made a person, not the body. What then, would be the point of bowing down to pomp and ceremony; of watching solemn men who had hardly known him bury an empty box in his honour, while previous clients buried their dry eyes in the appropriate handkerchiefs?
Sherlock Holmes is dead. He is gone. The flesh which once held his singularly brilliant mind is most likely slowly rotting at the waters edge, unobserved by anyone who would understand what this means to John Watson. Even I am unsure what this means to John Watson.
No. That is a lie.
I know exactly what it means to John Watson. It means far too much. Far too much to ever be admitted in polite society. Certainly far too much to be admitted to the thoroughly pleasant and quite beautiful Mrs Mary Watson. I often suspect that she already knows.
Sherlock Holmes is dead. I write it here so that i may believe it.
I write it because all i have ever written in The Strand is shamelessly embellished beyond all reason and if all that i write is exaggeration, then maybe writing 'Sherlock Holmes is dead' will make it a lie.