The people of London watched the funeral procession go down the streets towards the cemetery. Some people walked behind the casket, but one man stood out. He was tall and broad shouldered. His head was bowed, and his hat was pulled over his eyes. The rain made it impossible to tell if he was crying, but most would say he wasn't.
Sherlock Holmes doesn't cry, is what they would say.
The tall man was indeed the famous detective, but Dr. John Watson wasn't at his side. In fact, this was his funeral.
Before the burial, after roses were placed on the casket, people watched as Holmes allowed his emotions and weakness to show in public for the first time. He removed his hat, and with obvious tears in his dark eyes, he bent and kissed the casket as a final farewell to his faithful friend and partner.
People began to leave until only Holmes remained, looking at the grave. Tears and rain mixed on his face. Guilt and self-anger rose within him. Watson had died saving his life, taking a bullet that had been meant for him.
Watson was dead because of him.
"I'm sorry, Watson," he whispered, his deep voice hoarse and choked by tears.
Finally, Holmes turned and began the lonely walk home. As the days passed, he withdrew into himself, losing interest in anything and everything.
Mrs. Hudson and his older brother, Mycroft, were at a loss of what to do.
Watson had meant more to Holmes than he had ever let on, and now that he was gone, the detective felt numb and empty.
Finally, Mycroft had enough.
"Sherlock, enough is enough! You're better than this! Snap out of it, man! Watson is gone, and there's nothing you or anyone else can do about it. You need to move on!"
Sherlock did nothing, and Mycroft sighed.
"I give up."
He left.
The next day, Mrs. Hudson returned from her errands to find Holmes gathering Watson's things and putting them in boxes.
"Mr. Holmes, what on earth are you doing?"
"I am to move on, Mrs. Hudson, I cannot have the past staring me in the face everywhere I turn."
He picked up a picture of him and Watson that had been taken on their adventure in Cape Town, South Africa a year before.
"I must ask, Mr. Holmes, if it's all right if I keep that picture in my room?"
He paused for a moment then handed her the picture, and she took it to her room.
That night, as she lay in bed, she looked at the picture, which she had set on her nightstand. A sad smile came to her face as she looked at it.
She thought back over the years. Holmes and Watson had been very different from each other, and their relationship was tense at first. Yet, as they spent more and more time together, each began to take on some of the other's personality. They had been close as brothers. Holmes trusted Watson with some of his deepest secrets, and Watson trusted Holmes with some of his own. Each had risked their life for the other several times over the years. They had relied on each other. Together, they had been unstoppable. They were a team that had no equal or true rivals, but now... now the team was broken.
Watson was dead, and part of Holmes had died with him.