"I… I just don't understand why he would do this," says an extremely shaken Mary. Her eyes dart around the room nervously. She is shaking, like she's shivering, but it's not cold inside.
"He… he never seemed sad or anything like that. He was acting like his normal self before…" She bites her lip. Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears. She tries to be brave, but the feelings that occupy her right now are hard to dismiss.
"Are there… any other reasons that he might…might…" asks the unsure policeman. He can see how shaken Mary is. He hates having to be the one who interrogates her.
After a long pause, Mary sighs. She doesn't want to think about it, but she's going to have to. "No. I don't think so, at least. He'd just finished a good investigation. I don't know why he would do anything like this. It's so unlike him. He always… you know, had such a confidence in himself. He had pride in his work, and I don't see how anything could have convinced him to do this. He was so sure in himself. It doesn't make sense…" her voice trails off. "That's really all that I know. I'm sorry. I really do wish I could help more, but that's really all I can tell you." She's unsure, and understandably so.
"Thank you, ma'am. We appreciate your help."
Sherlock's death is a shock for everybody. It's not just another dead body. It's not just another investigation. Nobody is prepared for anything like this. How could they be? It is totally opposite to his character. In fact, Sherlock Holmes is the last person that anyone would suspect of doing anything like this.
An unusual melancholy settles over the whole investigation at 221B Baker Street. Everyone is trying to work, trying to figure out any reason, any motive. But, honestly, there is nothing to work off of. There's nothing suggesting that it was a murder. There's no evidence that anyone else was in the room. So, then, it must have been a suicide. It's really an easy investigation. But the "easy investigation" puts nobody's mind at ease.
While the investigation is totally lacking in questions that need to be answered, everyone working the case is far from satisfied. Really, it's because people aren't looking for facts or truth right now. They want hope. They want to know why he would kill himself. That's really the only question in anyone's mind. It is always present.
Lestrade stands at the doorway, surveying the sober scene. He too is surprised by Sherlock's death. Some members of Lestrade's team are attempting to interrogate John and Mary, but to little avail. Not only are John and Mary still in shock, but the police are distressed too.
Lestrade walks up to John. He is currently being questioned by one of the detectives. Based on the look of defeat that is present on the officer's face, Lestrade guesses that he's had little luck.
"Doctor, did he have any reason for… you know." Asked the officer.
"Well, I don't think so. He seemed fine. Maybe… It's possible that his last case could have stressed him out, or something like that. But it's always been the opposite. Sherlock is usually nervous or worried when he isn't doing work. A new case almost seems to calm him."
Lestrade motions to the officer to finish up with the interrogation. Obviously, there's not much information that is being discovered because of it, and John is so shaken already. He'd hate to keep him worried about all of this. The officer nods to Lestrade.
"Thank you for your time, Doctor Watson. I'm sorry for any inconvenience this may have caused you."
Lestrade approaches the officer as he walks away. "Did you get anything new?" Lestrade had to ask, but he was fairly sure he knew the answer. He was right.
"No. I'm sorry. The best I got was that he might have possibly been upset because of his last case."
Lestrade shakes his head. "Well, thank you for trying." The officer nods and walks away, obviously feeling defeated.
The death was so unexpected, especially after such a great success in the Blackwood case. Dr. John Watson had shakily declared Sherlock dead earlier in the day. It is obvious to the investigators that the death was a suicide, but why? Why would Sherlock kill himself after such great success?
That question is present in everyone's mind, but excessively in John's. The unknowns in this death torment John. He had thought that he knew Sherlock. That was why he had been so certain at first that Sherlock hadn't committed suicide. Sunlight streams in through the open windows. It seems kind of strange. When Sherlock was here, the windows were always closed. He claimed it was easier to focus that way. John shakes is head. It's scary to think about Sherlock in the past tense. He can't believe it's over. Just when the next part of his life was about to start.
"There is no clear motive," John whispers to himself painfully. He gazes around the room. Nothing looks the same as usual. The windows are open and there is an abundance of people. A colossal pile of books lies in the corner collecting dust. Everything was normal , except…
Suddenly, a realization arrives in John's mind that sickens him. What if Sherlock had committed suicide because he couldn't handle the fact that John was moving away with Mary? The two had been a couple for a while, but the close proximity to the wedding could have been Sherlock's breaking point.
Guilt suddenly overwhelms John. He can't handle it. Sherlock had seemed like he was not bitter about the relationship, but John now feels responsible for his death.
Lestrade approaches John. "How are you doing?"
John sighs, and answers. "Okay, I guess…" It's a lie, and Lestrade knows it. John can't handle the guilt anymore.
"Lestrade, I think I might know why…" He tries to push the thought out of his mind, but his guilt just grows. There's no going back.
"What do you mean?" Lestrade asks confusedly. "I… he might have been worried about me moving out. You know, for my wedding."
Lestrade hadn't thought about that. "Well, thank you. But I think that you should try getting your mind off this. Maybe go out?"
John nods. "Thank you. Really," he says. He walks out of the room, trying to keep his mind off the terrible scene.
But he can't.