London is crying. She is taking herself apart piece by piece until there is nothing left but the tormented emptiness which had crept up every street, every dark alley, slum, palace, garden, shop, factory and home. Slunk into the people, the inky blackness leaving nothing but the hate. And who wants to survive on hate?

The colours have long since melted into the sky and floated away. When the people dream, they see snatches of colour, snatches of long ago, whispers of could-have-beens, but as quickly as they come they flee again, and nothing has changed.

Everyone knows, but no-one says it. Who wants to be the person to declare what is obvious, to make everyone admit that hope has no meaning anymore. Because there is nothing to hope for, because the people don't know how to. Because one of these days the last person will cry for a better life.

Sherlock Holmes is staring out of the window, but he does not see, because he knows he does not want to. He is in the sitting-room at Baker Street, which is much the same as ever at first glance. First glances do not notice the lack of a chemistry experiment bubbling away, or that someone has splashed the bottom of the picture of Reichenbach Falls in red ink. Not even the broken violin is taken in. The syringe, that syringe, is crushed on the table.

There is one piece of paper on the floor, the piece of paper that shows what life was like before now. The last fragment of hope in the big city. Sherlock Holmes looks at it and picks it up. Then he rips it in two and puts the parts in the bin.

Mrs Hudson is crying, because she does not know why she is sad. She sits at a table in the kitchen, and grieves for understanding. As she wonders, just wonders, a glimmer of something flashes through her mind as fast as a steam train, faster. A memory. It edges around her mind, shielding itself from realisation, then creeps back to the impenetrable shadows to start an eternal sleep. It will never return, and Mrs Hudson will never remember.

Dr John Watson is in a pub, but he does not drink – sorrows do not go away now, for there is no better alternative. Usually he'd be at the surgery, but he's closed it. Who wants to get better if it means staying longer in this world? His medical bag is in there, but the contents are thrown across the room carelessly. By his side sits his walking stick, but a different one. He threw the sword in the Thames as uncaringly as if he had thrown a pebble. There is nothing left to fight for.

If he hadn't bought a new jacket he would have found an old betting stub in his pocket. Then he would remember the time when life was about the thrill, the uncertainty, the hope. Hoping, always hoping. Not any more.

Detective Inspector Lestrade sits in his office, thinking. He is nearly out of a job. Murder is everywhere, but the criminals do not even try and avoid detection. They don't want to try because there is no reason to. The relatives of the victim care, but for a very different reason. They envy the victim, because they have been delivered. Not them. Suicide is not an option, because in order to kill yourself you must at least hope that things will be better once the work is done.

Lestrade does not want to go home, because he will see the children. The children that still do not comprehend what is wrong, that don't know that the hope that is born with them will fade away and leave, like with everyone who is born these days. And then the children will be the same as everyone else. The cycle is inevitable.

Irene Adler is in a bare attic. She is trying to smile, but every time she comes close to success the fake happiness on her face cracks up, shattering like a mirror would and the smile is broken. Her beauty is gone now because the excitement, the life is taken out of it. Now her hair is in a plain bun and she wears no make-up.

She does remember an adventure from the past, or glimpses of it at least. A photo – of her and a King. She thinks she burnt it. A detective – one who had nearly out-witted her. Nearly. But she is ashamed of the adventure, and tries her best to forget it like everything else.

James Moriarty is in a slum. He is attempting to find an answer. Whenever he's confused, he feels hatred. Now he's permanently confused, and so the two emotions are entwined in his head. When he feels hatred, he kills. Before, the death was meticulously planned, but now he doesn't care who dies. So he kills any stranger who is lucky enough to walk down the alley where he waits. But then he becomes angrier, because he has just made someone happy and he is even deeper in the abyss.

He does not know what he was before. It wouldn't have made any difference. The fun in murder is gone. No time for games any more.

Mycroft Holmes is alone in his office. He is only there because he does not know where else he could go. The Diogenes Club is closed. Silence can be found anywhere. Parliament does not have much of a use any more. No-one cares about making the country a better place, because no-one thinks it will ever be. There is just a sense of resignment. The old issues are brought up in the House of Lords, but less than half-heartedly, and are always ended in indecision. Everyone can hear the thought to let it be, what did it matter, anything matter any more, echoing around their mind.

Books are no longer published, except factual books for schools. Imagination has long since closed it's curtains.

In some of the most hidden places, there is artwork, surreal and expressionist. Some people stare at these for a long time, trying to fathom their meaning, to be able to feel the same. They never manage.

All the theatres are closed, and entertainment is a faintly understood concept, if just very faintly. These days all one does is be born, live, die, and is forgotten.

This is the London people loved, this is the world without adventure, this is the world without hope.

'Dead, your Majesty .Dead, my lords and gentlemen. Dead, right reverends and wrong reverends of every order. Dead, men and women, born with heavenly compassion in your hearts. And dying thus around us every day.' Charles Dickens, Bleak House.

XXX

Right, this was written in a slightly odd way. I sat down in front of the computer and thought 'Just write without planning or thinking, except to keep it Sherlock Holmesy.' And voila! Sorry about the lateness of the update – been busy with stuff and went on an angstory mood. Reviews are all greatly appreciated.

Anyway, here's the real news: I got a letter from Edward Hardwicke! I know! It was awesome. Right, for fear of rambling on for pages, I'd better stop here.