"The next day, about 11 o' clock in the morning, Inspector G. Lestrade of Scotland Yard found the inanimate body of the well-known Mr. Sherlock Holmes at his lodgings at 221B Baker Street.
The Inspector originally had merely intended to visit Mr. Holmes on private terms, and was much disturbed by this entirely unexpected turn of events. The official is quoted to have stated that 'Mr. Holmes' untimely death' was 'one of the greatest losses the Empire has ever suffered'.
The precise circumstances are still investigated into, but it is highly suspected that Mr. Holmes has committed suicide.
He was found in his study, with a close-range shot wound in his right temple and his hand still holding a gun, which was authorized to have been in property of his former flatmate, the late Dr. Watson. None of the neighbours has observed anything suspicious or something being out of the ordinary, and there have no traces of an intruder been found in the house.
These and other facts make the possibility of suicide quite probable.
Additionally taking into account the reports given by Mr. Mycroft Holmes, the victim's brother, Mrs. Hudson, the housekeeper, and also by Inspector Lestrade himself, it also is quite certain that Mr. Holmes was deeply grieved over the recent death of his friend and biographer Dr. John H. Watson. This would suffice to also provide a motive for the deed." ------
Lestrade closed the newspaper, and for a moment he closed his eyes and reflected.
How sudden the death of Mr. Sherlock Holmes had been. How untimely. How desperate he must have been to take this extreme measure.
He had known Holmes quite well (...not as well as Dr. Watson knew him, naturally), but he never would have expected this. He had always believed him to be the least likely of all to bring his life to an end himself. He did not at all seem inclined to suicide.
Well, Lestrade had of course been aware of the detective's deep friendship with Dr. Watson, and had also known how much the death of his companion had affected Mr. Holmes, but...
The Inspector suddenly rose, out of a vague sense of duty fetched his hat and coat and made his way to the cemetery. He knew well where to go. The funeral had been but two days ago, and he still remembered it vividly. It was raining, and the cemetery appeared to be empty; no one seemed to be about but him. He shrugged when he had noticed that, and then came to a halt.
Lestrade was suddenly feeling cold, and he wrapped his coat tighter around himself. Standing in silence beside the graves of his friends, heavy rain pouring from above, he all of a sudden understood:
It actually had not been a question of 'time will heal'. In fact, it had never been.
All the time, there could have been but one possible outcome to it:
It would always be both... or none.