I stared down at the shrouded form on the autopsy table. The sheet that covered him was a virginal white, and somehow it seemed fitting that it should be thus. I stared at it for long minutes after Lestrade and Clarky had left me here alone with him. We had argued long and hard, Lestrade and I; he felt it was unwise that I should be here, but I was adamant that no-one else should perform this sad duty. I couldn't bear to think of another's hands touching him, despoiling his body uncaringly. The last hands to touch him should be those who cared for him most in life.

Steeling myself, I pulled back the sheet from his face and stared down at him. In death, Holmes' face was still and peaceful with a tranquility I had rarely seen in life. The lines of care seemed smoothed away from his brow. Gently, tenderly I stroked an errant strand of hair away from his face then cupped it lovingly with my hand. His skin was like ice against the warmth of my palm. Slowly, sadly, I stroked down the side of his face, then trailed a finger across the still lips, so pale and still, frozen without the breath of life to revive them. My hand trembled as I trailed the very tips of my fingers down his throat to his chest, dragging the sheet down slowly, and then I carefully folded the cloth back onto his chest to rest just below his sternum. I could feel his ribs beneath the cloth as I rested my hands there a moment; he was so terribly thin and frail. How long had this decline lasted? How long had he starved himself? I shook my head sadly.

"I am so sorry, Holmes," I said quietly to his still form. "I should have been there. I should have-"

I broke off and blinked hard as tears threatened to overwhelm me. My throat felt tight, and I swallowed with some difficulty. I struggled to contain myself, and only when I felt I had control of myself once more did I go on.

Gently I lifted each arm from beneath the shroud. Though cold, his limbs were curiously limp and pliant as I laid them over the cloth at his sides. I lifted one hand up in mine, marvelling at the long slender fingers that had seemed so nimble and graceful in happier times. Never again would they lift up the bow or pluck at the violin strings; the Stradivarius would sing no more.

Laying the hand back down at Holmes' side, I moved around the autopsy table slowly, studying my former companion as I walked. I paused by his head, staring down into that familiar face, and I threaded my fingers through his silky dark hair. Oh, how my heart ached that this was only possible at his death; never would I have dared touch him thus whilst he yet breathed. I pulled my hands free with slow reluctance, and then covered my mouth with them both as a paroxym of grief suddenly unmanned me. I doubled over as sobs wracked my body, stifled by my hands; hot, wet tears streaked down my cheeks and blurred my vision.

Long moments seemed to pass in this way as my body shook violently with the silent screams I dared not voice. I bit hard upon my knuckle in an effort to stifle them, and slowly I managed to regain control of myself. I straightened up with a tremulous sigh, then grimaced at the sharp coppery taste of blood in my mouth; my hand was bloodied from where my teeth had broken the skin, such was my anguish. I wrapped my hand with my handkerchief, then wiped away my tears with the sleeve of my shirt. After some few minutes in which I stood quietly, quieting my breathing, I felt ready to go on. Circling the table once more, I returned to his side, and with a trembling hand I lifted the scalpel.

I stared down at his face, steeling myself for what had to be done. Holmes appeared to be as one asleep, and my mind reeled at the prospect of what I was about to do. Laying my bandaged hand over his still heart, I leaned down and bestowed a last, chaste kiss on those motionless lips, praying I would feel them stir yet knowing I hoped in vain. Then straightening, I placed the tip of the razor-sharp blade against the soft white flesh of his heart.

I couldn't do it.

Try as I might, I could not force myself to drive the blade into the body of my dearest friend. I could not do it. Shaking my head, I bit my lip and prepared again to make the cut -

With a cry of anguish, I hurled the knife away from me.