"Sherlock!" John yelled as he ran across the coffee shop. He stopped midway, closing his eyes and shaking his head. No. No. This could not be happening. His best friend, Sherlock Holmes, had died nearly half a year ago. Dizziness took over and the room began to spin.
"John, you've got to calm down and stop screaming. You are okay. Stand up and follow me." John was on the ground, with his knees and elbows touching the floor, head down. He looked up at his past friend. Sherlock's voice was something that he had been dying to hear for six months. His eyes met Sherlock's and tears began to arise in both of them as Sherlock stretched out his hand to John. As he sat up, he took the detective's hand and followed him out.
"It's a lot to ask, but would you come back to the flat so we can talk?" Sherlock said this as though he had not vanished from the world, as though he had not vanished from John.
"So we can talk? That is what you want? Sherlock, I haven't been in that flat for six months. Do you know why? Because you died. You are dead."
Sherlock shook his head. "Then let's talk right here," he said before sitting on a bench. "This is a long story, so you will have to bear with me." He held out his hand and let John hold his hand.
"I only appear as an artificial intelligence. I am useless. Useless. Why would anyone want me around if they could have a smartphone or a computer? Nobody wants someone that they can't relate to." Sherlock paused, his voice catching. "I serve no empathy and release no sympathy. I have never felt love from anyone, only the mere sense of pride from others. My parents were proud of my accomplishments, scientists were proud of my deductions. John, oh John, I do not want pride. Pride is not something that i can feel. I am useless! One night I realized that there are so many other people in this world that compare me to a computer. I assume that is a wise comparison; all I am is an object. This world is already overpopulated as it is, so what would one less life mean to anyone? Yes, if it was a large celebrity or someone that you hold near and dear to you, it would hurt. But nobody loves me. That day I faked my death, with my brother's help. He did not know what he was really helping me with, as I told him it was a scheme to fool Moriarty. Actually..." He froze as tears splattered his cheeks.
"John, that night I swallowed pills. It started as one to ease the pain, then it stretched to two to three to five to ten to fifteen to twenty seven. Mycroft found me unconscious and my stomach was pumped."
John's head fell into his hands and he let out a loud sob. "Sherlock....Sherlock, don't.." He did not know what to say. This was his best friend, and he tried to commit suicide.
"Sherlock, you're my best friend. You get on everyone's nerves at times, including mine...but you are not an artificial intelligence. You are an incredible genius that I do not want a world without. Those six months were hell for me."
