What Sherlock left behind
Empty chair,
no more cases.
Tea for one,
bereft of chases.
John's smile's gone,
his manner's strained.
Trying to forget
the coat blood-stained.
The flat is quiet,
the violin gathers dust,
and the chemistry set
collects grime and rust.
He's taking the colorful
life to his grave;
depriving so many
of the light they crave.
Sherlock's now gone,
only John is left.
They both died that day
living lives so hopeless and grey.
A/N: I know it's a very short poem (and I know I'm very late to the Reichenbach party) but I was re-watching Sherlock, and so this little thing came to be. R+R, please (constructive criticism is always welcome)!
Disclaimer: I obviously don't own Sherlock. Duh.