This is my first story. Obviously it is still a work in progress and more chapters will be coming up. I hope you enjoy it!
Thanks to my good friend for the title idea!
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes. He was created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and is therefore owned by him.
Prologue:
It was proven to me on the night of 28th November 1897 that the countryside is more likely to be a victim on crime than the deepest, darkest alleyways of London. The fact that an innocent man's life was lost because of me has driven me to the point of despair. If I could go back in time somehow and take that bullet instead of him, I would.
It is me that has prevented him from living his future, and ruining his present life. This man I did not even know, I was a stranger to him. His body now lies in a wooden box under the ground and his murderer is still at large on the Yorkshire moors. His murderer, Professor Moriarty, may be ready to strike again, and there is not a thing in the world that I can do about it at this moment in time.
I have been forced off this case by the detestable Inspector Lestrade, due to the false assumptions about my mental state. So I have now been confined to my rooms in 221B Baker Street, which I still require a lodger to co-habit with, under the watchful eye of Doctor White.
But I will somehow get out of here and back to the Yorkshire moors and find Moriarty, even if it kills me. That man did not deserve what he got and if I could go back in time and put myself in his place I would.
And that innocent man's name is, Doctor John Watson.
To be continued...