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"My best friend... Sherlock Holmes... is..." John couldn't say it. He couldn't. Ella knew, of course. John knew that she did. Even so, she made him say it.
"...dead."
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Sherlock ran across the road, ducking behind an old sedan when he thought that his quarry might spot his approach. He didn't need to worry though. His target was slow; ignorant; unsuspecting.
He rounded the corner after the man and slowed down as he neared the doorway. Slipping the silenced pistol out of his jacket pocket, he raised it to the man's head, pulling the trigger without hesitation.
"One." he told himself. One closer to returning home. To returning to John.
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John visited Sherlock's grave every Sunday. Mrs Hudson had stopped coming with him now.
"Time to move on, John." she said kindly, laying a flower next to the headstone and placing a hand on the doctor's arm. "It's what he'd have wanted."
John shrugged the kind gesture free, shaking his head.
"I can't." he said, stooping to straighten the bloom, setting it parallel against the line of the shiny black stone.
"I have to clear his name."
Mrs Hudson nodded. She knew he wouldn't stop visiting, and she knew he would never stop fighting.
John Watson's mission was clear. He had to make everybody understand. He had to make them believe.