How I had clung to you, I recall. You always found a way to slip away from me, from us, from everything. I tried my hardest to satisfy your ever-changing tastes, but you kept slipping through my fingers as the wind slips through a tree’s outstretched branches. For days, weeks, months, I lied to myself, told myself you were coming back. I should have listened to your last words, but they, too, have slipped from me now. The memories are fading fast. I reach out now to the one thing I have left of you, but it, too, is dead. How I long once again for our adventures through worlds untouched, unreached, unknown. I’ve held on for hope too long. I gather together my broken memories and lost fragments of you. I hide them from my sight, from my mind. I know now you’re gone, you’re not coming back. In a final tribute to you, I will make something of my life. I know you would be happy, seeing me prosper after you’ve gone. This is for you.
Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What’s incredible though is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.