Sherlock opened the door to Baker Street, knowing that Mrs. Hudson would be waiting for him. She’ll want to know how he is—John. His shoulders slumped.
Mrs. Hudson stood at the top of the steps. “Sherlock, how is he?”
“Not good. He’s still rambling on about Mary, a baby, and my psychotic third sibling.”
“But you don’t have another sibling, do you?”
“No, John has clearly gone insane.”
Mrs. Hudson dabbed at her eyes. “Oh Sherlock, don’t say such things.”
“John, has gone off the deep end and it’s all my fault. I should have let him known I wasn’t dead.”
Mrs. Hudson laid a hand on his shoulder. “Yes, dear, that would have been ideal. John was never the same after that terrible day. He took your suicide so hard, blamed himself for not seeing the signs.”
Sherlock didn’t reply. He walked over to the fireplace put a piece of paper on it, then stuck a knife through it.
“What’s that dear?”
“John’s diagnosis.” Then he collapsed in his chair, looking at the empty one opposite him.
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