Chapter 1
She was sitting in front of the television as usual. The light of the screen bounced off walls and made the dim room glow. The mixture of moonlight from the small crack in the thick curtains and the broken, dappled light from the TV was slightly unsettling. She placed her warm cup of tea on the coffee table's hard, golden brown surface, pulled a soft red blanket from around her and stood up. As she walked towards the light switch she realised why she had needed the blanket. She checked the boiler, it was off.
"For god's sake Jemima!" she muttered to herself "You forgot to turn on the heating again!"
She pulled her cream, loose fitting, cable knit jumper a bit tighter around herself and walked back into the living room. She switched the light on and slumped back into her seat, pulling the blanket back around her and picking up her tea. She continued watching the programme that she had been trying to see before she had been rudely interrupted by unsettling lights and unlit boilers. She only managed five more minutes of her programme before the doorbell rang.
"It's fucking midnight!" Jemima shouted. The bell rang out again, her ears filled with the shrill noise. She groaned aloud and buried her face in a cushion. She slung the cushion and blanket aside and placed her now cold cup of tea back onto the coffee table again. She sighed and marched purposefully towards the door, ready to have a good go at anyone the other side of it. When she pulled the door open, what she revealed was definitely the last thing she had expected to see. John Watson, the man who saved her life, was standing there. Tears were pouring down his cheeks and the cuffs of his shirtsleeves were damp from continually wiping his red, sore eyes. She gently led him inside where he promptly collapsed into her arms. Jemima sat him down on the sofa while he sobbed. She turned the telly off. The only sound in the room was of a broken man. The one sitting right in front of her.
"What happened?" Jemima asked shakily.
"Sherlock." He managed to choke out.
Jemima wondered for a second who Sherlock actually was. She was tempted to ask but thought that it was probably inappropriate. Instead she settled for "Is he ok?". John shook his head vigorously in reply. She knew what was coming next.
"Dead." He whispered in a hoarse voice.
"Oh John." She whispered "I'm so sorry."
"Could I…" He stammered. "Could I stay here tonight?" He made eye contact with me for the first time since he got in.
"Yes of course you can!" Jemima told him. She knew when someone was desperate, it's hard to miss, and John Watson was definitely desperate. I didn't have the heart to refuse him.
"Thank you." He sobbed. "I just couldn't face going back tonight and you are the only person I could think of that doesn't make me think of him."
"It's fine. Make yourself at home. Do you want to be alone or…?"
He nodded.
"Okay, I understand. Tell me if you need anything, I can get it for you."
"Thank you." He said in a tiny whisper behind her as she left.
Jemima left John crying in the living room. She got him a small box of tissues, all of which would be gone by morning, and then realised that there was nothing she could do for him now but leave him to his memories and go to bed. The TV programme downstairs long forgotten.