Due to a number of unforetold circumstances, you now find yourself in a delirious position of whether or not to wait a lifetime of one year for the next events that are to unfold in your singularly boring genius life. The question of whether Sherlock did die or not was out of the scenario. He’s not dead, that you’re absolutely sure of, but the real thing is: how did he not die?

By the time you finish watching the last episode your brain will go into overdrive. You will start to overanalyze, rev up the gear in your head and start up a number of theories. The last man, the look of his face, the unwarranted interruptions... everything will become significant all of a sudden, and everything adds themselves up into a massive, convoluted, semi-idiotic theory which you think solves everything. You’re intellectually vain, and when you hear someone say you’re missing something, you suddenly get a rush of anger and fierce determination to want to prove them wrong. You are smart, you are not an ordinary person, and you are not one of the people Moriarty so heftily despise more often than every single day. And so the theories pile up in your head, one after another, each as unlikely as the next, and you wonder, with so strange a tang in your tongue, why you cannot grasp a single thread of the entire thing. You feel like you’re trying to hold water in your hand, like trying to figure out why God exists in hearts of people... It is a bleary sort of feeling and it annoys you so much that you could barely comprehend what all your other friends are saying around you and for a moment you start to doubt your abilities. Maybe you’re not that smart after all, and that you’ve just deluded yourself into thinking your own of the brainy lot. Maybe the truth is that you aren’t half as good an observer as Sherlock was, and you probably never will be. For some reason, you had always desired for a real-life Sherlock Holmes, but for another thought, you always dreamt of being Sherlock himself, no matter how shallow the chances and how ridiculous the hopes. It stays with you for a minute or so, before disappearing, eventually, into the back-breaking, boring routine of your life as your friends come to approach you to ask you to eat your lunch, because it is eleven in the morning and you have classes at twelve.

And when your friend asks you to skip classes, you can’t help but manage a smile despite the overwhelming sensation of wanting to wear a deerstalker hat and a long coat, as well as a short friend which you conveniently have, in the form of your newly-hair-cut friend.

Oh, but maybe Sherlock can wait another few minutes.