I looked at the newspaper in shock. No. It couldn't be true.
DR JOHN WATSON, MD
1853-1894
Dr. John H. Watson, veteran of the Second Afghan War and biographer of the esteemed late Mr. Sherlock Holmes, was killed Monday afternoon by Colonel Moran. He was….
I couldn't read more. I dropped the paper, and when I reached my room, I collapsed on the bed and held my head in my hands.
I had failed.
I would never hear Watson's laugh, or his cries of "Amazing, Holmes!" I would never again be the focus of Watson's full attention as I explained my deductions. Never again would I find a friend as loyal as Watson.
All because I had failed. I had been across the Channel as Moran murdered Watson. I was not there to protect him. I had failed.
Failed.
For the first time in my life, I felt a tear slip slowly down my cheek. I had failed, and Watson was gone.
"Holmes?"
Failed…. The word seemed to mock me. I heard it in the wind and in the waves. You have failed, Sherlock Holmes…
"Wake up, man!"
I opened my eyes to see a concerned pair of hazel eyes staring down at me.
Watson sighed, looked away. "What was it this time, Holmes?" he asked.
I didn't look Watson in the eyes.
"Holmes? You can tell me," Watson said.
"I… Moran reached you. I was in France… I read the paper… you…"
"Died?" He smiles sadly. "Holmes, it was just a dream. No matter what, when you wake up, I will be here."
By here he means in this flat, but there is also a deeper meaning. He will always be there for me.
A/N: Did I overdo it with "failed," or did it add to the effectiveness? Please let me know. I apologize for the long wait.