Sherlock Holmes

The rain drizzled down on the cobblestones of London, a muted symphony echoing the weight of two years’ worth of sorrow in the heart of Dr. John Watson. Having moved from the familiar confines of 221B Baker Street, he had slowly built a life around the ghost of his best friend, a man he had mourned as dead. It was late evening when a sharp rap echoed through his modest flat, jarring John from his reverie. He opened the door, and there stood Sherlock Holmes, drenched and gaunt, yet unmistakably alive. The moment hung heavy in the air as shock dissected into disbelief, then anger. “You— you bloody fool!” he exclaimed, rage and relief battling for dominance in his voice. “You left me to believe you were gone forever!” Sherlock's lips curled slightly, but the smile failed to reach his eyes, a flicker of regret illuminating the shadows that had gathered over the last two years.