The Completely True Story of Nothing

It is night.

I, the great Sherlock Holmes, am dying. 

My eyes are open, and I stare into the sky with an open, beating heart.The void opens its mouth to swallow the sun whole, leaving a path of bright stars in its wake. I lie, watching the darkness descend upon the world.

Cyanide is a force to be reckoned with, I think, tiredly.

As the universe languidly closes her eyes, so do I, drifting into a dusky silence. Screaming will not help me now. Nothing can only come from nothing, as Mycroft always says, so the dark isnt anything to be afraid of. I can leave without goodbye.

But John will be afraid. He has nothing to hide. John Watson is a pure heart, a pink, unsullied ribbon among the many tatters and tears of 221B Baker Street.

So I must not leave now.