The moment the doctor saw his coat flying,
John froze, staring
at the beautiful and, yet, terrifying picture
of Sherlock’s body falling down
while his soul burnt and went up.
He called it a suicide,
but John knew better.
Sherlock was, in fact, a murderer,
Sally was awfully right!
It was the detective himself
who put that body there,
no one else.
And as John took his pulse,
all his dreams and joy fadded away.
There wouldn’t be Sherlock Holmes anymore,
as there wouldn’t be the same soldier as before.
The fall did what that bullet couldn’t:
the sound of his skull cracking on the floor
hit John thoroughly like a bolt.
John Watson was finally dead
And the war wasn’t at fault.
Sherlock’s final problem, at long last,
enclosured their friendship
on a burial vault.