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He was lying in a hospital bed. A machine next to him measured his heart rate, which was going slightly faster than usual. A tube attached to his wrist was feeding him nutrients. And right at his bedside? Holding his hand with an expression of pure ecstasy? “John…” Sherlock croaked. Kind, brave, wonderful, brilliant, amazing, John in all his jumper-wearing glory. The fact that John looked like he hadn't had a proper meal, or a good night rest; both things he nagged Sherlock to do; in a month didn't bother him, What was important was that John was alive. Sherlock then tried to hug John. But his limbs were like spaghett

Sherlock was now in front of John’s grave. He didn't need to look at the gravestone. But he knew. He just didn't know if you got to say goodbye. Not a grunt of acknowledgement. But a proper goodbye. One you say to someone when you might never see them again. He was crying. He didn't know where he was, or what time was it. All he knew, was that he was crying. He doesn't know how long it has been. Ever since Robert visited him, time didn’t have a meaning. It rushed during cases; when he was deducing. But was always painfully slow when there should have been a ‘fantastic’ or ‘amazing’ or ‘brilliant&rs

“What?” Sherlock all but yelled “Why didn't he tell me?” “John said he did tell you. But you probably deleted it” Sherlock’s anger at John vanished, John probably did tell him, but Sherlock deleted it. Why did he take that information as ‘useless’? Why? Why? Why? Sherlock felt horror pierce through his veins. “Why are you here?” Sherlock asked. “Why did John tell you to give me a message?” Robert looked everywhere but at the Consulting Detective. Not Good. “Because…” Robert’s voice strained “because…” “TELL M

There was a knock at the door. “John?” Sherlock called, as he was in the middle of an experiment. No answer. John must have left for work. Dull. Sherlock answered the door. It was a young man, in his mid-20’s. Army. Not high rank. A Private. “Sherlock Holmes?” the Private asked. His tone was riddled with uncertainty. “What do you want?” Sherlock asked, “You aren't a client. Yet you are in the army and are wishing to speak to me.” The young man cleared his throat. “My name in Private Robert.” He said, voice strained even though he cleared it. “I have a message for y

John’s screams awoke the soon to be married couple once again. Mary understood her future husband’s pain. She knew what a pivotal part of John’s life he was.   But neither of them could live like this. “John, sweetie,” Mary said; one John had caught his breath, “you can’t be live like this. It’s not healthy to keep such a tight grip on the Fall. You need to move on!” “But he died!” John whispered, “Right infront of me! How can I move on from that?!” Mary and John had this conversation before; but now they might escalate into a fight. Mary decided it was time to p

In the time after Sherlock Holmes fell, the lives he was in became so very quiet. The Yard felt this in the crime scenes and cases that came after his fall. No more having their intelligence insulted, no more lightning-fast deductions. No ‘tainted’ crime scenes. Mrs. Hudson, though she complained about the noise he made, hated the silence the flat now held. She hated it not only for the pain of the loss of one she thought as her son, but also for the pain of the man who lived there; alone. Mycroft stopped dieting altogether, hoping for an insult from his little brother. Insults that never came. Only quiet. But the one who grea

They hadn't initially began to drink together, no. John had actively avoided Mycroft for weeks after the Fall. He felt it was the only way he could restrain himself from beating the man to a bloody pulp. It was weeks until he felt that he had enough self-control to not attack the man when he saw him. So he went to visit on a Friday, to see Mycroft drink whisky and, if John didn't know any better, he was sobbing; silently. A picture frame on his desk was lying flat. John walked over, Mycroft still hadn't noticed him. John picked up the frame and looked at the picture. It was of two boys, the younger one wearing a pirate hat, brandishing a wo

Today was the day he was going to tell him. He was going to tell his son who he was named for. They left with a bouquet of flowers and hailed a cab. The ride to the cemetery was quiet. As soon as they got there, his son began to ask questions. “Why are we here?” “I want you to know who I named you after.” “He’s dead?” “He took his own life” he sighed, “because of me” The two stopped as he let the tears fall. His son squeezed his hand in comfort. They continued. “He was the greatest man I ever knew. Brave, selfless, brilliant. We were flatmates, colleagues and best

Almost ten months had passed. John Watson was sitting in his, now solo, flat. He tried to get away, but he couldn’t leave. Mrs. Hudson already lost one boy. So he stayed. For her sake. He was interrupted from his thoughts when someone knocked on the door. John sighed. He hoped it wasn’t another reporter, wishing to besmirch his former flat-mate’s name ever more. He answered the door and saw a boy and girl. Both in their early 20’s. The boy was pale, had spiky black hair and grey eyes, carrying a bag. The girl was olive-toned, had long red hair on a pony-tail and green eyes behind glasses. They both were dressed norm