For Jeremy Brett, who passed away on this date fourteen years ago-RIP.

It had already been a year since the death of Sherlock Holmes.

It is perhaps a fault of humans that they are easily confused by the endless stream of days and events until they can only view them as one massive blur of time. A year goes by; they look back, and are dumbfounded by the rapid flow of hours and minutes. Marveling at the quickness of it all, they can only shake their heads and wonder how life can be so short.

However, they fail to understand just how much can occur in the space of a year. It is enough time for doctors to sell their practices and for biographers to conclude their memoirs. There is time for a young landlady to fix the bullet-marked wall that a certain Mrs. Hudson never had the heart to touch. It is enough time for Inspectors to retire and for new ones to take their place. Criminals will take advantage of their inexperience to scheme, and sometimes, their plots will be successful. But then again, a year can also be enough time to learn how to stop them.

Bees continue to produce honey, the Diogenes club continues to gain members, and dust continues to grow on a well-known Stradivarius. The game goes on.

A year is enough time for tears to be shed, for questions to be asked, and for wounds to be caused out of sheer grief and loneliness. But sometimes, it is also enough time for those wounds to begin to heal.

The journey to Sussex had not been an easy one. The old Jezail bullet wounds had been acting up recently and as much as Dr. Watson didn't want to admit it, he was no longer a young man. Indeed, Sir Leslie Oakshott had advised him to forget the trip entirely, but when confronted with the possible medical risks, Watson had merely shrugged and said "It never would have stopped Holmes."

So, achy and weary, but not defeated, Dr. Watson arrived at the village of Fulworth. He took a quick detour to one of the local shops and then made his way to the rambling churchyard cemetery with his purchase. Limping past row after solemn row of gravestones, Watson finally found the one he was looking for. It was off to one side, away from the others, but still just as bleak and foreboding as the rest. The epitaph was simple, only stating the name of the deceased and the dates of birth and death. Mycroft Holmes had reasoned that Sherlock would not have wanted any unnecessary fuss. This plain, grey stone would have been declared sufficient.

Mycroft was probably correct, but Watson did not like to think of his friend as just another lonely grave in a forgotten cemetery. Once he had respectfully removed his hat, he stepped forward and set down his recent purchase, a fresh bouquet of pink carnations.

"I hope you don't mind, old friend," he murmured quietly, "You probably think that I'm being a hopeless romantic, but I thought perhaps…well, I thought maybe you could use a bit of color, and-" A gust of wind came whistling through, cutting Watson's explanation short and causing him to shiver violently. He coughed and pulled his coat more tightly around him before continuing.

"Sorry, Holmes, these old bones aren't quite what they used to be. Wind moves right through them, it seems." He sighed wistfully. "Oh, Holmes…it seems so strange that another year has passed us by. And yet, I feel twice as old as I ever have."

There was an increasingly uncomfortable silence and it almost seemed like the gravestone was staring him down, observing his every move disdainfully.

"It's not quite the same without you, old fellow. I-I don't know if you can hear me up there, but I do miss you very much." Watson said, blinking rapidly. "You'd scoff, I'm sure, but sometimes I can't bear to think of you as being gone. I keep hoping that if I continue to wait by the telephone, you'll call and ask me to come and stay the weekend. That's just foolishness, I know. I'm sure you don't want to listen to my ramblings. You're probably busy solving all of life's greatest mysteries up there, aren't you?"

But there was no answer, nor could there ever be any more. Sherlock Holmes was dead, no longer available to respond to his biographer's questions. And the biographer, no longer able to hear the answers he needed, could do naught but stand there and furiously brush at the wetness in his eyes.

Watson did not know exactly how long he remained, but he was still there when night began to fall. As the light faded away, he managed to see two figures walking towards him.

"I'm terribly sorry," Watson said, afraid that they had come to ask him to leave, "I didn't realize how late it was getting. You probably want to lock the gate now, so I'll just be on my way."

"Hullo, Doctor, don't you recognize me anymore?" It was the taller of the two. He stepped closer, pulling a scruffy boy along with him. Something seemed oddly familiar about his voice, yet Watson doubted that its owner could have been there.

"Wiggins, is that really you?" he asked hesitantly. "You must forgive me; it's a bit hard to see you in this light. Eyes are starting to wear out, I suppose."

"Don't worry about it, Doctor. I know it's been awhile. Last time I saw you, I don't think I even had Peter then." Wiggins nudged the boy forward.

"My dear fellow, you never mentioned that you had had a son!"

"Doesn't look much like me, does he? He takes after his mum, both in looks and personality. Both of them are roight shy around strangers. But he's a good boy, nonetheless," he said fondly, clapping young Peter on the shoulder.

"This really is most extraordinary. What are you two doing in the area?"

"Why we're here to pay our respects to the guvnor, of course. That is, if we aren't interrupting you."

"No, no, not at all. Holmes would have been happy to see you, just as I am. I must say, I wasn't expecting to see any old friends today. Too many of them are no longer with us. And many others have since moved on."

"Well, that doesn't mean the whole world's forgotten you, does it? Peter here, for instance. He's read all of your stories, haven't you, son?"

"Yes, I like your books very much, sir. My friends and I, we've all read 'em."

"You should see them, Doctor. They go and act the stories out all the time. They've even come up with a few of cases on their own," Wiggins added.

"Goodness, do you mean to say that you and your friends all enjoy pretending to be Holmes?"

"Well, not quite, sir. Me, I like to be Inspector Lestrade and Billy won't let anyone else be Mycroft. We all have to take turns being you and Mr. Holmes. Sometimes, we can even get Susie Livingston to be Mrs. Hudson."

"Y-you do all of that?"

"Course, sir, it wouldn't do to leave anyone out. The stories aren't the same then. Hullo, what is it, Doctor? Do you have something stuck in your eye?"

"Now, now, Peter," Wiggins said hastily, "It's getting late and we've kept Mr. Holmes waiting long enough. Didn't you want to say something to him?"

Peter nodded and stepped before the gravestone, his head bowed reverently. There was something very fragile about him standing there, the boy who had finally met his hero and couldn't think of just what to say.

"Well, Mr. Holmes," he finally began, "I would like to thank you, sir, for all you've done for the world. You helped a lot of people and you made them very happy. I wish I'd had the chance to thank you while you were still with us. Sometimes, you know, I think about it all and I get very sad. It doesn't seem fair that we couldn't have met you then, since now we have so much that we'd like to tell you. We could have watched you solve even more mysteries. But then I realize that just because you aren't alive, it doesn't mean you aren't with us. We have Dr. Watson's stories and my papa's memories. It's not quite the same, maybe, but we've still come to learn more about you and to be grateful for the work you did. The world still remembers you, Mr. Holmes. We still need you just as much as we ever did. And we always will."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," Wiggins said. He pulled his son into an embrace, affectionately ruffling his hair.

Watson was overwhelmed with emotion by this point, but he still managed to give his thanks and to say his goodbyes to his dearest friend, promising to return soon. The three of them turned and began to walk out of the cemetery. As they passed the gate, Watson could have sworn that he heard a violin start to play. Perhaps he was only imagining it, but it made him grin to hear the sound of Mendelssohn's Lieder again.

Several years passed and Peter's prediction remained true. Generations passed and the people still eagerly devoured the Sherlock Holmes stories. They cheered Holmes on as he tore down the Thames after Jonathan Small, they cried when Watson read the farewell letter at the Reichenbach Falls, and they smiled each time they read how the two of them were reunited. The years rolled by but the pages would never stop turning. For many things can happen in one year, and in all the years to come, but there will never be enough time to forget the people who loved the world enough to make a difference in it.