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Summary
“Sherlock deserves an elegy, a procession of mourners to install him (the friend, the beloved) as the genius of the place. Because Sherlock was, in more ways than one, the genius of this place. So, screw it, then: London mourns.”
“Finally, for the first time since he died, Sherlock appears, sitting next to John’s bed in a dark suit, reading a book with birds on the cover, looking like a shiny-eyed crow himself with his head cocked to one side. “Idiot,” he says fondly, for old times' sake.”
“This is how John bars the door against the black dog: He shuts his eyes and he puts out his hands.”
We all mourn in our own way.