The sister comes to identify that it is indeed him, a seemingly unnecessary task but I can tell it is important to her. I close the door behind him and my eyes start leaking again. He leaves quietly with his head in his hands. I get at least two of the same scenario every week.
He had been drinking and it seemed like a good idea at the time. I hate to be the one to say it but it’s a pretty standard one.
It won’t bring him back and it won’t help you solve some mysterious case. Seeing him isn’t going to achieve anything, you know. ‘Sherlock was, Sherlock was Sherlock but you’re not. ‘When it was Sherlock fucking Holmes you didn’t mind bending the rules. His eyes burn accusingly and I don’t look at him because it hurts to. When he asks I turn away and my eyes close reflexively. His badge earns him few privileges anymore and so he comes to beg for information instead of ordering it as he is used to. There are still people in this world who love him. After a moment of hesitation I lean forward and peck him on the lips because I need him to know, regardless of his life status. Swallowing loudly, I replace his lifeless hand back beside his body. I almost expect to see his eyes flutter open in shock and for him to demand to know what I was doing. With a funny and probably inappropriate smile, I lift his right hand and bring it up to meet the wound on the same side of his head. The wound in his head is obvious and rumours whisper that the CSIs had to pry the gun from his hand. It doesn’t take a detective to determine how it happened. Yet as I pull back the sheet to see his face I cry a little because it’s sad and we’ve all had enough of sad in recent years. I can’t claim that John and I were good friends in the grand scheme of things we were probably viewed as little more than acquaintances. As always, my importance, influence and impact on those lives around me is unnoticed, if I even have any. The whole Sherlock Holmes is a fraud debacle damaged his ranking beyond recognition, the officer deemed “too close” to the illegality of it all to remain unbiased. When Detective Inspector Lestrade arrived on the scene, they denied him access. It had been the thing to take him after all. The flat still stunk of alcohol and smoke but there was no more breath in his body, only a gun in his hand.
His body was discovered by a work colleague and former girlfriend who had wondered when he had been absent, two full days in a row. John Watson was found dead on a Thursday.