My sleep is disturbed for just a second, as I hear a team of nurses hurry into the room. My eyes snap open in reflex, as I can see them all surrounding one bed. Oh, it's not mine, not my bed. I'm somewhere else. That's good, I guess. I can relax. I'm out of trouble.

But it must mean something bad too. Something, something- well, it can't be all that bad if I have completely forgotten. Mummy always tells me this if I should forget something that I just know is very important, but I can't exactly tell what it is. Just like now.

I can see down on the whole affair, the noise gaining more and more distance, me losing the busy people out of view. But still, there is one thing I can see as clear as the night. Something small and cold, a body as inanimate as death itself. No breath rises in their chest. I wonder who it might be, there's no hair to make them out.

And I do wonder too why me, the little Sherlock Holmes, is forced to witness this scene? What have I to do with this person's death? This is terrifying.

Where is John?

And why is it so cold? Freezing. John.

...

His breathing has fully stopped now, I hear one woman shout out of the door. And his pulse rate is very slow. I hear so many things, so much noise around me that I can't concentrate on one thing at a time. I just know that he isn't well. And that I should have changed this when I could, had I not been away. But how am I supposed to know this sort of stuff? When to be at what spot at exactly what time? I'm confused about my name sometimes, what do they expect?

I look at his tiny face, resting happily. He's almost smiling. I have only once seen him this pleased, when we had our little 'fight'. Although I'm not sure whether this right now can qualify as pleased or just as plain scary. It's both in a way, I guess.

But I'm definitely scared. Just scared that it'll happen again. Not again. I couldn't stand it. I don't want another person to die again, just because of me. Not Sherlock.

So I stand here as I watch them carry him away, his little arm falling down lifelessly just like a last wave goodbye. I remind myself of the last words that I heard Sherlock mutter, so that I should never forget them. He was talking in his sleep, almost mumbling.

But I heard them, I heard him murmur out words of a dream, softly. It were happy words and it still makes my stressed face lose a smile for a second, when I have to think about his little sleepy outcry of euphoria. He almost squeaked with happiness. Maybe he dreamt about us, he mentioned my name once, I guess. But maybe that was just me, imagining things I'd like to hear.

I stand alone in the room now, there's no one in here but me, waiting. For the sentence that has to be dropped in at least an hour or so, even less. I reckon. Ten minutes later have me standing silently, only screaming the words I'd very much have liked to say. In my head only, of course. I don't want anyone to hear this but me and him. A nurse picks me up and lays me down to bed. I still feel alone, even now.

There wasn't enough time for me to say goodbye. There was no goodbye. So there can't be death right? That's not how it goes.

My feet find their way over to Sherlock's bed, more numbly than nimbly. I crawl under the duvet of my friend's, covering my head under the blanket. It smells of him. It's almost as if I could say hello again.

I'll really have to start watching that TV-thing Sherlock was talking about, it might help a bit. My fingers clutch tight to the little soft toy, Redbeard. Maybe I'll keep him.

25 years later, John Watson

It's been very long since I last visited my friend; actually I can't recall visiting him at all these last years. It's a shame, really. One is to take good care of a good friend.

So now, that I have been invalided home from Afghanistan, I see my chance and take it as quickly as I can. Mummy has already told me that it's a bad idea, that I shouldn't go see him. He had always had a 'bad influence' on me, especially in my younger years. But I couldn't possibly say no. It has been too long.

He'd be mad at me, surely. I just know he'd be. If I should disappoint him again.

And I don't want to do that ever again. He's been the only reason why I didn't give in; the only reason why I took the chance the doctor gave me, another operation. The only reason I survived. He's my motivation, still. Even in Afghanistan. And also the main cause why I happened to find my favourite TV-show in "Sherlock", a thing of the BBC that's unfortunately not running on TV anymore. Either way, I got all the three seasons.

I'm so happy to see him again. He'll be so surprised.

The cabbie driver looks at me with a grin as we make our last turn into the last street before we stop. I guess he only smiles at me this enthusiastically because of the money, but I don't make anything of it. Everybody's selfish in a way.

I fetch him his money and he nods at me happily. The car drives away in no time and then I'm there.

I'm not sure I want to be here again now. It's been so long, I don't know what he'll say. From one second to the other I was gone to do my civil duty, without even telling him. I should have thought about it.

My feet take me to where they have to go, passing Baker Street in a hurry. That's not where I have to go anyway. The graveyard is more like it.