The only one in the world

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I went up to the door step of 221B Baker Street. I hated having to come over to their flat, but I had to check on Sherlock. After John had gotten married and moved out, he'd been back on drugs. I couldn't have him harming himself more than he already is. I raised my hand and knocked. Nothing. I did it again. Still nothing. I was beginning to get worried. I didn't care if the bastard was experimenting, off on a case, or even sleeping, I bust open the door and barged in. I heard a surprised Mrs. Hudson shout. "Sherlock, dear, is that you?" The landlady comes around the corner. "Sorry, Mrs. Hudson. Is Sherlock or John here?" I asked her. "I'm afraid not, John's at Mary's..Sherlock might be here, you can go and check if you'd like." And with that I went up the stairs, taking them two at a time. "Sherlock? You in here, mate?" No reply. Must not be here, I decided to look around, just in case. And I'm glad I did. I ran into the kitchen to find empty pill bottles and syringes scattering the counter tops and the floor. Sherlock was laying almost unconscious on the hardwood, next to one of the syringes, just slightly out of his reach. "Oh...my God. What've you done, Sherlock?!" I raced over and kneeled beside him, automatically grabbing his wrist, tears were now flowing unashamedly down my face. Where was that blasted doctor when you needed him? "Sherlock..." I say again. He tries to take a deep breath, but it was barely audible. "I'm glad you're here, Greg." He uses his last bit of energy to tell me that. Of all times, to actually remember my name, it was today. Maybe it should be a good thing that he'd finally decided to remember, but it hurt me. I felt a hiccup that was soon to turn into a series of miserable sobs escape my mouth as Sherlock's eyes closed and a tiny breath was leaked from his mouth before his body went perfectly still. And with that, the only consulting detective in the world left us to our own devices without so much as a proper goodbye.

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