He leaned back in his chair
He closed his eyes

The echoes of the dog’s growl
Still echoed in his ears
He remembered the screams of
Young Lord Baskerville

He rubbed his eyes
He still wasn’t sleeping well

He woke up screaming last night
Images of green dogs
Intermixed with sand and blood
And the screams of soldiers

He went downstairs to retrieve a cigarette
Sherlock was waiting for him, one already rolled

“It was a mean trick you played,” he scolded
As he lit the cigarette
“It was necessary to my plan,” the genius replied
With no regret

Watson walked to his window
“I thought I was alone”

He looked up and saw the reflection
Of his friend in the window
“You are never alone, my friend” the genius replied
For once emotion cracked his voice, “Never.”

Watson was nearly done writing
He would send it to the publisher in the morning

He stretched his legs
He looked around his small office
His friend had been dead two years
And still could hear his voice that night

“Might I trouble you then to be ready in half an hour,
and we can stop at Marcini’s for a little dinner on the way?”