Ok, this is not a "real" drabble. I've given in to the "221B" challenge!
The papers proclaimed Sherlock Holmes was dead and the city of London filled with the black arm bands of thousands of mourners. Watson's own bit of ribbon weighed on him, pulling him down until he could barely wallow through the motions of existence. Every condolence uttered to him, every stark black headline screaming at him from the stands, even the sight of certain streets twisted his heart immeasurably.
Holmes had died doing that which he lived for: fighting for right and justice. It was a cold, comfortless comfort that Watson clung to desperately during the blackest hours of his soul. The villain was dead, his evil deeds shattered and scattered to the winds. There was nothing left of his network; it was gone.
But then, so was Holmes.
How he made it through Holmes's funeral Watson would never know. Perhaps he was truly that stoic. Or perhaps trudging through the motions of what was expected had become routine for him by then. And funerals were all but routine for him now, he had attended so many. They were all too horribly similar; they all ended with the final gaze upon the cold, still face of a loved one.
This funeral was no exception.
This time, Holmes would not appear in his consulting room after three years, disguised as an old bookseller.