With elegance and grace,
He swifted through the air,
Myself, I could not brace,
The loneliness that lived there,
The no return of my bestfriend.
The realisation of his end.
What I'd give to make it stop,
Take the fall for him instead.
To reverse his disastrous drop,
Make sure it was I who was dead.
In my head; the scene's repeated,
The last time Sherlock's defeated.
Though all of that's irrelevant,
As I hurry to St. Barts,
I see what once was intelligant,
A dagger through my heart.
There lies his cadaver,
tainted with crimson,
People begin to blather,
About his final failed Mission.
