He was falling. No, falling was too nice. He told me that the phone call was his note. He told me that he was a fake, that he invented Moriarty. Then, he jumped. From where I was standing, I could hear his bone breaking as he hit the cement. That noise is what jolted me awake. This was the third time I had attempted to sleep today. None of the previous attempts had succeeded in staving off the tired that I had felt for the past two years. That dream haunted me every time I tried to fall asleep.
I got out of bed, still tired, and walked into the kitchen of 221B. As I waited for the boiling kettle to howl, I looked around the kitchen and living space. It looked all the same, as if Sherlock had never died. I never had the heart to pack anything up. My therapist would tell me that it was unhealthy, but I needed to be reminded of him. I was afraid that, had I packed things or moved away from 221B, I would forget Sherlock. The man was important to me. He saved me after the war.
The howl of the kettle pulled me out of my thoughts. I took my warm tea and went to sit in my chair. I grabbed the newspaper in front of me. I did my best not to look at the headline, but I couldn't help it. It was his picture, in that deerstalker hat that he always hated.
"Sherlock Holmes: Two Years Later."
"Still Fraud Despite Global Movement."
The headline made me sick. Even in death, they couldn't let him be. That was not the story that interested me. The focus of my attention was the story of a 19 year old girl who had been murdered. She had been found in a shipping yard, which she had no business being in. I re-read the article for the ninth time that day, trying to use Sherlock's methods of deduction to figure out why she was there. It didn't work. I could never figure out how he did it.
I continued to scan through articles that I had read multiple times today. I was stalling from what I actually had to do. It was the two year anniversary and I was going to have to go to Sherlock's grave. I didn't like going to his grave. It never made me feel closer to him and it made his death seem final. When I was at 221B, I felt like Sherlock would walk through the door any moment. I guess that's why I didn't pack anything away. I expected him to walk through the door, like he had never died.
As I continued to read, I could hear the front door open and someone enter the hallway. Mrs. Hudson must be back, but I never heard her leave. She must have left while I was trying to sleep. I scanned through the last page as I heard Mrs. Hudson walk up the stairs.
"Do you need any help Mrs. Hudson?" I called
No one answered.
"Mrs. Hudson?" I called again, folding the paper and placing it on the table.
I heard someone bump into the wall.
"John." Someone called out, as if they were out of breath.
I turned toward the voice and there he was, just standing there, a gun in one hand while the other clutched his ribs. He was covered in sweat.
"John, please...help." Sherlock said as he crumpled to the floor