The group of girls laughed as they settled down for the night.
“How about we tell ghost stories?” one red haired girl suggested. The others nodded and made sounds of agreement and settled in a circle. The lights were turned off and a small lantern was placed in the middle of the group.
“Who wants to go first?” the redhead asked, looking around at her friends. The girl with near white hair raised her hand.
“I will.” she paused and the others pushed her on “Have any of you heard of the ghosts of 221B?” they all shook her heads and the girl smiled “My granddad told me this story. Said it’s one hundred percent true.”
“Well, go on then.” one encouraged.
She cleared her throat and began.
“It starts with a bullet wound to the shoulder of Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. He was sent home from the war in Afghanistan with a tremor in his left hand and a psychosomatic limp. Life was dull. He missed the war, missed the adrenaline and the danger. Then he met Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective.
“He could read a persons life story just by looking at ‘em. No one liked it much, but John, he thought it was amazing. Sherlock fixed John’s limp and gave him the excitement he craved, John gave Sherlock the constant care he needed. They became flat mates, then best friends, brothers. Granda’ said they were practically an old married couple by the way the argued. They solved cases together, running through London in the dead of night, chasing down serial killers and kidnappers.
“It was all good and nice until James Moriarty came into the picture and repainted everything they had known. He kidnapped John and had him strapped to a bomb, nearly killed them. Then he just, disappeared for a few years, but he came back, and this time, he didn’t plan on losing.
“He set Sherlock up for kidnapping a politicians two children and spread doubt throughout London. Sherlock was called a fake. The papers said Moriarty was just an actor Sherlock payed to portray a terribly evil villain so he could stand in the spotlight. He played the cards just right, and Sherlock had no way of stopping him. Until the happening on top of Saint Bart’s.
“Sherlock knew there was only one way out of Moriarty’s game, and he had found it.”
She paused and her friends silently urged for her to go on, to finish the story.
“He called Moriarty up to the roof and they talked, their conversation recorded on Sherlock’s mobile. He had everything going the way he wanted, until Moriarty revealed his little escape route.
“Snipers. One for each of the only three people could really call friends. Only Moriarty knew the word to stop them, but before Sherlock could get it out of the mad bastard, he shot himself in the head. Now Sherlock had only one option left. Jump. And that’s what he did.
“He called John as his note and jumped. right in front of his best friend. Some people still believed in him, believed that he was truly alive and just hiding out somewhere, but John knew better. He knew that Sherlock was truly dead and felt himself dying slowly, day by day.
“He left 221B Baker Street and Mrs. Hudson. Left London all together. He simply wanted to get away from all the memories and the could have beens. My grandad kept an eye on him, but he knew that no matter how hard he tried, it was only a matter of time before John Watson broke completely; because whether it was platonically or more, Sherlock and John loved each other and were the centre of each others own personal universes.
“And brake John Watson did.
“He was found by the police after his neighbor called the cops, hearing the gunshot. He left a note. Just a short one.
“‘I’m going home. Lay me next to him, will you? -JW’”
She stopped and drew a deep breath before continuing.
“John was buried next to Sherlock underneath an old pine tree. Their own secure little place, just for them. People say that sometimes, when London is quiet and the moon’s hidden in the smog, you can hear quiet violin playing coming from the graveyard. A sad, slow song that somehow lifts your spirits with the hope and contentment filling the piece of music.
“I’ve heard it. The day my grandad Lestrade was buried in the same graveyard two years ago. A slow, soft tune. So beautiful and welcoming. I don’t know whether I was imagining it or not, but, I like to think, that they were welcoming my grandad, and helping me feel alright with his passing.”
She finished and the room was silent, save for the quiet sound of a violin playing in the distance.
