The flat was small and messy. Take-out boxes littered the kitchen table, most of them months old. The refrigerator was empty save for a jar containing a frog whose skin had been inverted and a muffin tin holding five severed tongues. One of them sported a piercing.
The sitting room was a mess of papers and dust. The bedroom wasn't in any better shape. The bed was covered in a tangle of unwashed blankets and almost every surface was occupied by bits of string, jars filled with dubious concoctions and crumpled newspapers. There was even a welding torch in the corner.
The inhabitant of the flat was sprawled on the small mud-colored sofa, his dark curls shining from the grease they had accumulated from five days without being washed. Sherlock Holmes couldn't care less. He stated at the ceiling, gloating. The last gunman was dead. The final thread in James Moriarty's web of crime had been severed, and it was all because of Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock ran his eyes over the walls of the flat. Tacked to it were hundreds of photos, articles and letters, red yarn criss-crossing and connecting them to each other. The photos all had a black 'X' on them. Sherlock had done it. It had taken him three years, but it was over now.
Sherlock expected to feel relieved, but instead of feeling a weight lift from his chest, he felt it pressing all the harder.
John.
Sherlock couldn't stop thinking about his friend. For three years, while he was hunting and hiding from criminals, all he could think of was John Hamish Watson. Wishing he was with him, wishing his blogger could accompany him. The texts hadn't helped.
Sherlock couldn't stop reading John's texts, no matter how hard they hurt him. Sherlock reached for his phone and opened his messages.
Don't be dead, you bastard.
JW
Joke's over, Sherlock. Come back.
JW
I don't know why I'm still texting you. You're not listening.
JW
I'll always believe in you.
JW
Mycroft keeps checking up on me. I noticed how alike you two are.
JW
Sorry that I compared you to Mycroft.
JW
Still waiting for that miracle.
JW
Sherlock continued scrolling. He had memorized every text, all 867 of them. Suddenly his phone buzzed.
Merry Christmas, Sherlock.
JW
Sherlock stared at the text, his thumb itching to hit the reply button. Why not? He could contact John without endangering him. The gunmen were dead. Sherlock took a deep breath. Instead of texting back, he found himself shutting his phone off. John would be a fool not to hate him by now, and Sherlock would be a greater fool to expect otherwise. John might plead for Sherlock's return through texts, but he wouldn't really want Sherlock back after three years. He deserved a normal, safe life.
Sherlock sighed, closing his eyes. Overwhelmed by the sudden emptiness of his life, he allowed himself to drift into oblivion.
"Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock quickly opened his eyes. He knew that voice. Sitting up, he found himself face-to-face with Jennifer Wilson's murderer. The Cabbie. Sherlock never bothered to learn his name. "You're dead." He plainly stated.
"Yes, I am." Replied the Cabbie.
"And I'm dreaming."
"You're wrong about that, Mister Holmes."
"I am conversing with a man who has been dead for four years. Of course I'm dreaming." Sherlock couldn't keep the scorn out of his voice. The Cabbie just grinned and, without warning, punched Sherlock square in the jaw.
"Does this feel like a dream?" he asked.
"A hallucination, then," Sherlock mumbled, rubbing his jaw. "I haven't slept for three days and I can't remember my last meal. This is my body's way of rebelling."
"Suit yourself. I'm not here to argue with you."
"What are you here for?"
"I'm here to tell you that you'll be visited by three spirits. One for each hour."
"Oh, so you brought friends? Why is the 'spirit world' paying such close attention to me?"
"We've come to change your mind, Mister Holmes."
"Change my mind? About what?"
"For such a clever man, you can be so thick, Mister Holmes."
"Change what?" Sherlock asked, before he realized he was talking to empty air. He was alone in the flat.