"John Watson, do you take this woman to be your lawful, wedded wife?"
"I do." Stated John.
"Then I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss your bride." He looked over at Molly and smiled, something he rarely did until a few months ago.
"Congratulations, John. I guess you could get someone else to like you other than me. Amazing."
"Sherlock just because I'm married doesn't mean we become shut off from each other. Everything will be the same, except you'll just have the flat to yourself." John said making an effort to choose his words carefully. "You'll find a new flat mate in no time."
Sherlock stepped out of the cab and looked around. 212 Baker Street. Cab let him out two blocks early.
"Wait—WAIT!" He yelled as it drove off. "Damn cab." He mumbled. He started to make his way down the street, with much conviction, evaluating his flat situation. With John moving out, he knew he would need another assistant, one hopefully just as good as him. Before he could finish his thought, something caught his attention from across the street. There was a woman, mid-twenties, stringy brown hair, musty coat, a street begger, obviously. One of the many in London.
"Please, please just something to drink," the woman begged in-between treacherous coughs. Sherlock had seen many beggars with the amount of walking he had done around London, many of them asked for the same things: money, food, water, a place to stay, etc. But she managed to catch his eye more than any other from his previous travels. In that moment she collapsed to the pavement, her body making slight twitching movements along with the endless strands of coughs. He dashed across the street and crashed to the ground next the woman. Her eyes were dazed, but her consciousness seemed gone.
"John is never here at the right moments," he muttered to himself. "Can everyone please clear the area? Some space, give us some space, please." He scooped her up into his arms and scurried back across the street and into 221B Baker Street.
"Mrs. Hudson I need some blankets, pillows and a cup of tea at your greatest convenience." He places her ragged body on the couch and took the tattered coat off. It was a horrid thing, most likely more than 5 years old, gift from an old friend, male actually, but he had passed now. He deductions didn't stop there. He swiped the hair off of her face. A few scars on her cheeks suggested past frequent beatings, a specific puncture on her right cheek being from a 3 inch pocket knife.
"Mrs. Hudson I'll be having that tea now!" He beaconed. The land lady hurried in carrying a cup of tea on a small platter.
"Sherlock, what's all this yelling about? Oh my, who is this?"
He took the tea and sat the girl up.
"Found her near the flat, she needs some care."
She felt his unwillingness to give more on the subject, so she turned her heel and quietly exited the flat. He positioned the girl in his arms and began to slowly feed her the tea. She woke up instantly, knocking the cup out of Sherlock's hand sending tea all over the sofa. The more she started to wake up, the more she started to fight him.
"What in the hell—who are you? What- get off of me!"
"Stop it, stop it—look at me. I'm not going to hurt you."
"Oh you clever boy, that's what they all say."
"You're right, all of them but me."
She stopped and slowly looked up at the stranger. His hair had a soft curl and his eyes looked like the ocean. She was almost immediately entranced.
"My name is Sherlock Holmes. You collapsed in the middle of the street, I took you back to my flat. If I hadn't you would've never made another sound."
She stared back into his eyes. They were daunting, yet comforting. She couldn't stop, and he found himself uncontrollably locked on the girl's eyes as well. She made him begin to feel doubt, something he rarely felt. He couldn't read her. All he had from her was an old coat. He broke away first. "You need to rest." He stood up and felt something grab his hand. He glanced down to the girl. She had taken his hand in a soft grip. He became lost for words, and a slight sweat formed on the back of his neck. Look at him, his own body betraying him. What was this? Another ordinary feeling?
"I—er—have to go. Theres food in the kitchen, I'll be back before nightfall." With that he grabbed his coat and walked out slamming the door behind him before she could say another word. She sat there examining the room, slightly confused. He popped his head back through the door.
"What is your name?"
"Alice, Alice Hawkins."
With that, he turned right back out the door.