"Sherlock, why were you like a raging wolf there?" Lestrade asked. "I felt that the moment they step together is the moment I lose..." Sherlock sighed. "Man, you are improving! This rank is called Peasant with Stick!" Lestrade chuckled. "A Peasant with Stick is MY rank?!" Sherlock angrily said. "Oh, yeah, but the next rank is Cupid with Stick..." Lestrade consoled the fellow. "With a Stick, okay, it's fine..." Sherlock said. "Hey, Lock, where are you going?!" Lestrade asked, spitting his coffee out. Sherlock just went out.

He went to a field. The wind blew. It cooled his tear-wet face. Why had he been crying? Did Lestrade insult him? He did NOT insult him. So, WHY HAD HE BEEN CRYING?! He had given up, somehow. He had once been a man with an iron-fist. He once was heartless for a while. But inside, his seemed-heartless heart was hurt. He tried to withhold the feeling. But he was unable to stop it. The cold wind consoled the heart-broken detective. But again, his feelings had been let loose into the world. The wind stopped. It was not enough to comfort him. For the first time, Sherlock had let his feelings let out. When he was a kid, when his parents found out he wasn't gonna be a lawyer, he was deprived of freedom to cry when he was hurt emotionally. His parents said he was a wuss. This even happened to Mycroft, his brother. But now, Sherlock had let his tears let out—even the ones that were supposed to be out before! The wind then blew, again comforting. It stopped. Sherlock now fell and lied down on the grass. It was wet. Sherlock never knew...IT WAS ACTUALLY RAINING! "Huh, how did I get here and why is my face wet?!" Sherlock said. He forgot what happened! But the most startling sentence was said. "Who AM I?!" Sherlock asked. He forgot himself!