A/N: This is a little thing that has been going through my head for some time. It was inspired by several Evanescence songs and simply would not leave me alone. So I decided I would share it with you.

Summary: My take on Watson's thoughts during the three-year hiatus. What if the good Doctor had been bordering on insanity himself?

Warnings: Dark-fic, equally dark thoughts, thoughts of suicide, Watson/angst

Disclaimer: I do not own anything, all characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle and I'm not making any money from this!

Reviews make me happy, so I would be glad to receive feedback. But please do not be too harsh, I'm new to the fandom of Sherlock Holmes! All spelling errors found may be kept, though I did my best to locate them all!

Life among shadows

The moment I turned around and looked into the long-missed face of my dearest of friends, Sherlock Holmes, when I saw the familiar twinkle and the half-grin I knew so well, my legs simply buckled underneath me. Though not, as my friend suspected, out of shock for his sudden reappearance and the dramatic act he had played, the reason why I swooned then, why I practically fainted at his sight, was that I believed that I now had indeed become insane.

It was a curious sensation, to be thus thrown into a world of imagination and being only partly aware of the turning of the world. I felt as if someone lifted me, but my mind was caught still in the dark blanket of unconsciousness. And in that time, I remembered in all detail the last three years, remembered the pain I had endured. Remembered the brink of insanity I had stood upon so many times, always convincing me that I was not yet insane, that I would be fine as soon as the grief lessened, that the things I saw (or thought to see) were only my imagination.

I remembered that terrible afternoon when I walked back from the Reichenbach Falls, my hand clutching the items my friend had left behind for me to find. The letter rested in my breast-pocket and I clutched near desperately the cigarette case which he had used to keep the letter from drifting in the breeze. I have never felt such grief, at least not up to that point. My friend had been taken from me and I had been powerless to prevent it. Great friend indeed! I should have known that the story of the ill woman was only a ruse to get me away from him, and some treacherous part of my mind whispered that he had known it also. I did not heed anyone around me, I only wished for silence. Numbly I walked to my room, only barely holding on to my self-control. As soon as the door clicked shut behind me, I could not keep up the pretence any longer. My knees bent irresistibly and before I knew it, I was sitting on the carpeted floor, my back pressed to the door behind me and buried my face in my hands. I am not ashamed to admit that I wept for the fate of my friend. I wept as I had not wept before, lamenting on the world and its cruel twist of fate, to rob such a man as Sherlock Holmes of his life and me of my dearest friend.

I do not know how long I had sat there, or when I had fallen asleep, the cruelty of this day only serving to throw me into a fitful rest, filled with dreams of instances long past. Things I knew would never again be happening, he would never again write me a short precise telegram requesting my assistance or ask me to bring queer objects to a certain loaction, he would never again be explaining the workings of so magnificent a brain to me. We would never again sit at his lodgings in Baker Street, comfortably smoking a pipe together, or share a cab, or talk in general. His presence was gone from this world, and as much as it shames me to admit, I longed to join him.

When I woke, I found myself on the floor, having passed out there the evening before, and made my way to the bathroom on shaky feet. I performed the task of cleaning me up mechanically, without really knowing what I did and why. I held no care for such trivialities. As I had changed into new clothes, I glanced at myself in the mirror and looked calmly at the image before me. I should have been startled by what I saw, for the man in the mirror looked nothing like me. A drawn, haggard man, looking as if he had aged twenty years in the span of just a few hours. But as it was, I did not care. I just observed, without emotions, the man looking back at me. Of course, my clothing spoke of a well-kept man, but the eyes were the truly unsettling thing. They were cold (at least at first glance), devoid of emotion, as if the strain of the past hours had been too much already. Yet I perceived the pain behind my own gaze. I knew it was only a matter of time before the grief would overtake me once again.

I knew there had to be tasks completed, letters to be written, information to be given, but I could not find the strength to do so. Once I would have written to his brother, once I had taken up my pen and wrote the sentence down I so dreaded, there was no way to hide for me anymore. Sherlock Holmes was dead and in a way, in many ways if not all, it was my fault. I had left him there, I had been too stupid to see the obvious ruse, I had abandoned him to his enemies. It was my fault.

I had failed. I had failed myself, his brother, the world, but above all, I had failed him. His trust in me to help him, to come to his aid when he required it, had been ill placed. When he needed me most, I was not by his side, I was (as I had thought) on the way to help a woman I didn't even know and had left him. I had deserted him.

It was my fault! Because I had deserted him, left him standing on that pathway, he had met his doom. I was responsible for his death!

Trembling I sat down at the small desk opposite my bed, letting my body collapse into the chair and while my gaze was fixed upon virtually nothing, I felt my thoughts wander. Aimlessly they swirled around my brain, pointless chatter between my ears, while I could not concentrate long enough to understand them. And over all I felt as if I could still hear Holmes' voice, as if he was whispering out of the very air around me. In a way, it was unsettling, but at the present moment I was soothed and marvelled at my imagination to conjure up such a soothing presence around me to calm my nerves. And I knew it was a fake sensation, even though I wished it wasn't.

After a long time, I am not certain how long, if it was one hour or many, I finally managed to stand up again and push the guilt away for a while, at least as long as it would take me to prepare my lonely homeward journey. I even managed to compose a telegram for Mycroft Holmes (the man would want details as soon as I was back in London, I was sure) and packed my suitcase. I buried my emotions deep during those hours, I could not allow myself to crumble now. I at least owed it to Holmes to make sure that everything was seen to. He would not want me to be emotional over his demise, he would have said that death was a necessity, it was the next great unsolved mystery. And he would solve it long before I did, as he usually did.

On the train backwards, while I sat alone in a compartment and stared out into the gathering gloom of night, I wondered at what I should do now. I could never forgive myself that he was gone, it was my fault and nothing would ever convince me otherwise. The whole ride was a blur to me, the accusing voice of my conscious the only company I had. I knew it would be there until I too would leave this world. I felt no dread at that notion, just overwhelming guilt and sadness as I glanced about me and realized; for the upteenth time since I had boarded the train; how alone I was. There was nothing else besides me here, and there would never again be. There would never again be his gaunt figure across the compartment, smoking a pipe and peering out the window.

As I recalled the many times we had shared a train-ride, it almost seemed as if I could see him. Just the way I remembered him, sitting there, quietly puffing at his pipe, blowing small rings of faintly blue smoke into the air. I was almost convinced that he WAS there, but when I stretched out my hand, the illusion disappeared and I was once more overtaken with grief for his loss.

The ride seemed to stretch on forever, I wasn't really aware of anything, not even when I left the train to board the ship across the canal and boarded another train on english soil. I did not heed anything around me, did not care for anything else, I was quite oblivious to the world around me. What was the world now, anyway? With Sherlock Holmes gone, it would surely be a dull and uninteresting place.

I arrived in London in the early morning hours. The streets were almost deserted and while the cab rattled slowly through them, I watched the world around me, enshrouded in grey emotionless mist. It seemed bleak, dank and horrid, little colour strewn about and the sun had not quite tipped the horizon yet. All was grey and black shapes, while I held no care for it. I just watched, observed the world around me, while it continued to turn, just like the wheels of the carriage underneath me.

I managed to remain standing and relatively normal until I had closed the door to my house in Kensington. My wife was not home yet, she was still upon her trip. I had not wished to inform her, I could not bear the thought of her being witness to my grief. I had to be strong for her, though how I would attempt to do that was beyond me. I desperately longed for someone to tell me what I should do now, how I should overcome this, and all I was answered with was deep silence, broken by my own shuddering voice that it was my fault.

I had spoken it out loud at last. It was my bloody fault and now he was gone from ths world, ripped away from this plane of existance because I deserted him. The guilt overruled me once more and I could not remain standing any longer. With the last of my strength I managed to drag my sorry self over to a chair by the cold fireplace and fell down upon it, vacantly staring into space. My conscious assaulted me, screaming at me that I had lost my truest friend -brother rather- because I deemed another life more worthy than his. How could I have been so careless? I knew the danger we were in, I knew he should not have been left alone, I knew that together we could withstand most things, but the moment we were separated, our strength dwindled.

My anguished mind suddenly conjured up a terrible image, him falling into that foaming abyss that gaped beneath our feet like a snarling beast, ready to pull its prey down its fangs. And he had fallen victim to it. I saw it as clear as if I'd been there, his form crashing onto the rocks at the bottom, his blood spilling over them and thinning in the white waters.

A choked sound emanated in the silent room and I was shocked to discover that my own throat had emitted it. No longer able to face the world, I buried my head in my hands and felt my tense shoulders shake as the first silent sob escaped me. I was not shamed to weep, in truth I wished to scream at the top of my lungs at the injustice of the whole affair.

I do not remember much of the passing days, only glimpses are still festered in my brain. Such as the meeting I had with Mycroft Holmes, his haggard face half buried in shadow as I talked. And though he assured me that I was not to blame and that Holmes probably had known what he was doing, I was not able to stand his company for long. I half wished that he would blame me, that he would scream at me that his brother was dead because of my stupidity. That he not did that, only hurt me more. I was convinced that I did not deserve anger from the man, after all, he was Holmes' brother and as such had his emotion under very tight reigns.

Another thing that still registers in my brain was a visit at Baker Street, where I wanted to speak with Mrs. Hudson. The poor lady, I doubt I shall ever forget the sight of her. She sat in an armchair, sobbing into her apron as if she had lost a son. It is my firm belief that she saw Holmes as a son in a way, after all, she was the one that cared for him as much as he would allow it. She had been very fond of the man and to see her in such a state was terrible to behold. She could hardly speak, and when she did, her voice was filled with sadness and agony.

My own emotion dared to overtake me again when I stood in the room with her, breathing in the well-known scent of the house around me. And though she asked if I would be going up and assured me that she would be keeping everything in place and proper order, I could not go up. I had no right to be up in his rooms. Had no right to stand there and look at the belongings of the man I had so shamefully deserted.

One thing I clearly remember is the memorial. And what a grave memory it is. I stood in front row, Mary at my side, solemn and caring, while I clutched her hand near desperately. When I had told her what had happened, she was stricken with the news. She knew how much I had valued my friendship with Holmes and was therefore as sympathetic and caring as any man could wish for in a wife. But standing there, in front of the gaping grave, while an empty casket was given to the earth, I just gripped her hand to anchor myself on something alive. The vicar spoke kind words about Holmes, praised his intelligence and his accomplishments and I could feel nothing but resentment for it. This man did not know him, what right had he to speak about Holmes?

As I glanced about me, I saw a fair number of people gathered. Mrs. Hudson of course, her tear-stained face controlled, but her hands wringing a handkerchief. All the Inspectors we had worked with over the years were present, in their faces I could see that the loss had been a heavy one for them too. Several rows of Constables stood behind, all solemnly looking to the ground with bowed head. Only now did I realize that even though Holmes frequently insulted the Yard, they had still come to pay their respects to him. They had valued his opinion, some even had marvelled at his deduction skills and the blow for them was a sore one. Due to his frequent dealings with the police force of London, Holmes had become entangled within the ranks of Scotland Yard himself and they had regarded him as one of their own. That he was lost now, grieved them also.

And Mycroft Holmes was there, silently standing apart from everyone, stern and grim as ice, one might say. He fixed the casket with such an intense stare as I have only seen present upon Holmes' face before. When the service was ended and the crowds started to disperse, our gazes met for a moment, but he quickly looked away. Once more the guilt soared in my heart, knowing that the elder Holmes would never look at me again, for I had failed his brother and deserted him to his death.

Long I stood at the grave, Mary standing next to me, her presence calming and oddly reassuring. At least she would still bear my company. When it began to grow darker as the afternoon waned on, she finally dragged me softly away from the sight I shall never forget. The sight of the gravestone. Only his name engraved upon it, nothing more.

Only his name.

The sight haunted me for nights too numerous to name, mixed with anguished guilt-induced dreams, where I would see him fall, would hear him scream, would search for him and could not find him. Each time I woke, I felt as if I was chilled to the core, and the more it happened, the lesser I could concentrate on my daily doings. My guilt-ridden mind conjured up his voice at all times of night or day, so real as if he was standing directly next to me and often I turned my head smiling, only to find the spot where I had believed him to be vacant.

I knew vaguely that I began to lose my grip on reality, I knew it, but could not find strength enough to do something about it. I wanted to hear him talking to me, even though it was fake and only my memory of him talking to me, but I did not care. Why should I change it if it provided me with the illusion that he was still there?

One morning, it must have been about two months after the memorial, my mind advanced from letting me hear the voice to letting me see the shape. I was so startled at first that I ran out of the room, expectantly looking to and fro, only to be faced with the grim reality that he was not there. I had imagined his figure crossing the hallway outside of my bathroom where I could see his figure passing in the mirror. Grief overtook me once more and Mary was the only source of comfort I had. I clung to her near desperate, while she wept in the wake of my sorrow.

Over the course of the following weeks I regained footing, or at least as much as was possible. The nightmares would not leave me, but I came to live with them. Neither would my imagination let me find rest, the instances where I heard Holmes' voice multiplied and so did the sightings of him crossing the room behind me. I knew Mary was concerned and I did my best to show her how much she meant to me. I took her out to concerts, dinners, plays, spent lengthy mornings and evenings with her. Anything I could to see her smile, if even for a brief moment.

I suspect she knew. She knew why I spent so much time with her. I needed to have someone I valued around me, someone to care for. My guilt over Holmes' death provoked me to show her how much I valued her in my life. I was grateful for her presence and her love and I never missed an opportunity to tell her so. Under her care I slowly found back to something akin to my former self.

I believe there was not ever a woman so cherished in the whole of the British empire.

But life is cruel. To me at the very least. The cruelty of it was proven to me about one year and a half after Holmes' death. Now, as I reflect upon those days, I begin to think that perhaps Holmes was right. Forming close attachments only makes one liable for suffering. I should have expected him to be right in the end. After all, Sherlock Holmes seldom was wrong, he usually remained on the right course from the beginning and said day was proof to me.

I had been in my practice for most of the day in order to have the evening free with Mary. She had promised to cook her famous stew and I looked forward to it. Not to the stew in particular, mind you, but to Mary being there. She had gone out early that day, intend on visiting a friend and on her homeward journey procure the things she needed for the meal of the evening.

I was nearly done with my last patient for the day when Ivy, my help in the practice, came in and told me that Lestrade was waiting for me. I wondered briefly at what the Inspector was doing in my practice, but as Ivy assured me he was not injured and did not seem to be sick in any way, I only hoped it would not interfere with my evening plans.

When I came out into the waiting room, when I saw his eyes and the undisguised anguish in them, I knew something had happened. When he quietly told me that a cart horse had bolted and sped through the crowded market place, I felt my world shatter around me. The horse had been spooked and had trampled seven people in its wake, my Mary among them.

I do not know to this day, how I remained standing, how I could even talk, or think, or breathe. I felt as if my very core was torn apart once more, only this time there would be no soothing presence to piece it back together. Only the ghosts of my past, the people I had loved and lost. I did not heed Lestrade leaving, the man was more aware of my state than I gave him credit for.

That night I cried myself to sleep once more, burying my head in her pillow, which still held her scent. That once scent I knew could only belong to my Mary, I was never able to place it correctly. It always was like a symphony of smells, sweet and flowery, just like the woman which had worn it.

My world had crashed around me and I only stood by, watching it happen. Once more my guilt surfaced and I began questioning whether it would have happened if she had planned something else for the evening. If she had been intend on cooking something else, would it still have happened? Shocked I discovered that she had planned the stew for me. It was my doing that she was on the market that day.

It was my fault.

Another fault on my conscience, another stone to drag me into the waters of sorrow and guilt. It had been my doing. She was gone, the last shred of line that anchored me to this world was gone and it had been because of me.

My mood darkened, while I lost all care for the world of the living, spent hours seated in my armchair, exhausted by the task of my duties as a newly widower. I was aware that my mood now resembled my dear lost friends, the black fit had me in its clutches and I strangely did not want to emerge from it again. I heard his voice speaking to me, but found no strength to heed his calls.

Of those dark days, the funeral was the very worst. For one because it was so damnable real. The casket which held the last light in my existance was lowered into the dark earth, the vicar spoke kind works again and I stood in front of all, leaning heavily on my cane, the same cane she had gifted me with. I barred my emotions deeply, refused to let anyone else see how deeply I was hurting, accepted the condolences of my acquaintances, felt the sympathetic glances which were thrown my way. Mrs. Hudson was there, wringing another handkerchief, her kind face twisted in sorrow over my loss. It was she, who brought me home eventually, back into that cold, lonely residence I had stopped calling my home the day she left it forever.

My health deteriorated drastically in the following days and weeks, as I refused to eat. I could not. Everytime I ate, I was reminded of the fact that if I hadn't been making the suggestion to Mary that she cook my favourite dinner, she would still be alive. She would be here.

As my strength waned, my consistent malady returned and I was stricken down with enteric fever once more, why exactly it surfaced then and what the cause was I could never find out fully. I was not aware of the world around me anymore, my fever rose and at the height of it, I hallucinated them both. Holmes and Mary, bending over me, as if beckoning me to give in and follow them into the afterlife. Their ghosts had returned to haunt me, to make me see just what I had done by my stupidity. I lost my will to live in those moments, I wished for nothing more than to relinquish into the arms of death, and be laid to rest next to my dear wife.

But apparently, though I so longed for it, providence had other plans.

My fever abated, after I know not how long, and I awoke. I dreaded every new day, hated the rising of the sun each morning. How dare it be so cheerful when all I had left was shadows and ghosts? I welcomed the beginning of the night, when the world would match the darkness festering within my own soul. In those long hours in the darkest parts of night, I truly longed for death. All I had loved were lost, all I had valued had been torn from me. I was the last survivor, and I wished for this agony to end.

At the same time I was convinced that I did deserve such agony. It was my fault they were gone and I knew it. It was only right and proper that I should be punished by living on in that knowledge. I was aware that I was caught in a depression so severe, it would have rivalled the dreaded black fits of my dear lost friend.

And ever and anon, I could spot his gaunt features in the mirror behind me, or passing through the hallway, peeking around corners or standing in a crowd. My mind conjured up images to cope with the loss of both friend and wife. But in those dark days, I did not really care about it. I cared neither for sleep nor food, I simply wished to be taken away from this existence, for the grief of living while all I loved were dead was too much for me to bear. I was entirely alone, and yet I welcomed the brief instances when my mind advanced into a life of its own, though often it served only as a reminder that they were no longer with me.

I kept dragging myself from day to day, one step after another, one minute after another, the world seemed to move slower than before to me. And I held no care for it anymore. To the majority of the people around me I portrayed an image as if I was getting over the pain, as if I was moving on. I kept seeing patients again, used work as a distraction from the void in my life. But it was nothing short of a lie. In the evening, when my servants had departed, when the house was cold and lonely and as lifeless as I felt, the pain of their loss continued to overwhelm me. In such moments I thought I heard the voice of my dear friend, or thought I saw him moving close. And the more this happened, the more I was convinced that I lost my mind in the wake of death seemingly surrounding me. It must have been that. My nerves had been shattered and in the process of piecing everything back together in working order, my imagination had advanced in a life of its own. Or, a bit clearer, my mind imagined to see my dead friend, supplying me with company, however illusionous it might be. Week after week the illusions became more elaborate, often I spotted his gaunt features in the mirror behind me, but when I turned, he would be gone.

Slowly, almost without my notice, I began to lose myself in the dark recesses of my imagination, slipping ever further away from the world around me. I kept my practice, but my patients grew fewer as my own bouts of depression became more and more frequent. And in those fits, I could often hear the voice of my dear friend, or heard Mary whisper to me. I slowly lost my mind, I knew it, and was unwilling to prevent it in any way. If madness supplied me with the company of the two people I so longed for, why prevent it?

As the anniversay of my wedding day drew nearer, I was overcome with grief once again. Dreams of instances long past plagued me, vivid reminders of her laughing face, of her figure and her features, the way her hair had felt or smelled and often when I emerged from them, I would break down and weep for her loss. I believe I wept a lot in those weeks and months. My sorrow crashed in a gigantic tidal wave upon me and I was powerless to find shelter and solace. It was so much that I was nigh on hurling myself off the nearest bridge into the Thames to follow them.

It was on the night when I had married her, that I found myself in my study. The manuscripts I had written over the course of three years sprawled out in front of me, with only the last account published, which I had titled "The Final Problem". I had written countless cases over the years in an attempt to drown the sorrow within me, to find some peace in my notes and the sentences I wrote. To find solace in the memory of a time before the Reichenbach Falls, when my life had been fulfilled. When both of them were still with me. A time gone, which could never be claimed again.

Idly I twisted my service revolver in my hand, the same weapon I had taken with me on so many endeavours with Holmes. The weapon which had enabled me to ensure his survival countless times, with no care for my own safety, much to his dismay.

A photograph of Mary stood atop my desk, Mrs. Hudson had given it to me. She had seen it and had it framed in a beautiful silver, gleaming with the lamplights strewn into the room from outside. I looked into her eyes and saw the joy within them, and wondered what she had been thinking that day when she had that picture taken. Had she really known the depth of my love for her?

When I heard a sharp click I looked back into my hands and saw that I had loaded the weapon without realising it. I had no real urge to end my life, but living did not seem too inviting either. It held nothing more for me, now that all I had loved had left this existance. Of course, during the day I kept my schedule, saw patients, met old acquaintances, but when the night deepend outside, the shadows gathered around my soul also. I felt as if I had no right to continue living, not even as a penance for my failures, I wished for nothing more than to be reunited with them both. I longed for this sorrow to end.

And then, when I was close to relenting my hold upon this existence and following my love and my friend into the afterlife, I suddenly had the feeling again. As though he was here, even though he couldn't be. I knew he couldn't be. And yet I had that distinct feeling as though he was within the room with me, his ghost shadowing my every move. I imagined his voice imploring me to relinquish the hold of my trusty service revolver. To hold on to life.

Then it dawned on me what I had almost done. Shaking I dropped the weapon and sat back in my chair. I must indeed have been going crazy, to even think about what I had almost done. As I dropped my head into my cupped palms and closed my eyes, I almost had the impression I felt a hand on my shoulder. Numbly I noted that this had to be another depth of my madness, to feel things that were not real. And yet I felt it, as real and clear as the sun rose every morning.

It would have been a blatant disregard of their memory if I were to let go entirely and follow them. I was the last person which still held on to their rememberance, I was the last link to them, the last person who had known both of them closely. I had no right to defile their memory with my suicide. I had to live with the penance of their deaths upon my conscience, and I would continue to pay my debt, until I met them again.

I locked my revolver away that very same night, lest the temptation should overcome me again. I could not be certain that my imagination intervened if such an occurrence repeated itself.

Such it was that when, after three long years of near madness, I set eyes upon my friend again, I did indeed think I had gone mad fully now. But when I came to and heard his voice, felt it as his sinewy hands held my frame up, it did not seem as if I imagined it. Joy overtook me then, I had not gone mad. He was real, and in my study no less. I grasped his arms and could not stop myself from stating the obvious (at least in my opinion) that he was indeed no spirit.

And now, as I sit once more in my old (and new) home in Baker Street, enjoying once more the company of my long-lost friend, I simply cannot convey the gratitude I feel towards my own mind. I know, Holmes would never have forgiven himself if I had done away with me. My memory of him had served to hold me upright through the most trying time in my life, my imagination had conjured up an image of him when I needed him the most to make me see that I wasn't alone. I would never truly be alone.

That even though my beloved Mary was lost, I still had one last thing to hold me to this world. One last thing left to do before I would join her. The trying task of looking after my truest and best friend.

Sherlock Holmes smiled quietly as he read the last sentence written on the pages of the journal within his hands. Watson was blissfully unaware of him snooping around in his journal once more, as he was collapsed on his desk in the living room of Baker Street, where he had written for the better part of five hours.

He had never known the depth of sorrow Watson had endured by his hands and he resented the world for ever placing his dear friend in it. At the same time, when he had read the account of his Boswell, he had remembered the countless times his own imagination had provided him with the voice of his dear friend, while he was in hiding from Moran's henchmen.

Noiselessly, careful not to alert his friend to the book replaced in front of him, he shook him awake. Or at least as close as one got when waking John Watson. His bleary gaze looked up and fixed himself on Holmes.

"I would think that sleeping in that position would do you no good, dear Doctor." he stated quietly and had to stop himself from smiling when Watson simply nodded and made his way out of the living room and up the steps to his bedroom. That man was like a sleepwalker at times, Holmes was sure, he would not even be aware in the morning of how he came to be in his bed at all.

Smiling Holmes sat down in his armchair by the fire once more, breathing the scent of his home in and relished in the fact that he still had his truest friend with him. He could not imagine what he would have done, finding his gravestone upon his return to England.

Feeling to be in a reflective mood, he settled down with his violin and started playing a quiet and soothing tone, as to not disturb the doctor upstairs or the lady downstairs. After all, they were the family he had come to cherish and as he had learned from Watson, one must ocassionally show them exactly that.

The End

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