I've always wanted to write about Sherlock Holmes, although this is John-centric.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own any of these characters.
It started with one, like everything starts. It started after that one came back from Afghanistan and was in the need of a house. With the grey sky of London —so different from what used to be his home until mere days ago— over his head and a hurricane of dark silhouettes passing by, he wondered —briefly, he didn't have much time— how his house mate would be.
And, as soon as he opened the door that leaded to the 221B, Baker Street, he knew that it wasn't just him anymore.
Then there were two of them, and they were inseparable. Sherlock solved and John wrote; Sherlock played the violin and John listened to it; Sherlock tried to mend the world and John saved lives.
They were a team, two pieces of a whole, the twin brother Heaven forgot to give them. And it was fine like that.
Until a new addition decided to break into their lives.
Irene Adler was the only person capable of outsmart Sherlock. And the only one who drove him mad.
She was married, and the three —four, if we count her husband— of them knew it. Watson didn't know how or when their affair started— but it didn't matter, anyway. Sherlock and Adler were probably the least indicated people to love anyone but themselves.
They were pieces of a big puzzle they were both trying to solve. Nothing good could come out of there. Her husband was safe.
Until he wasn't.
Until it was just Sherlock and Irene and her husband was six feet deep, long forgotten and never loved.
Watching them —Holmes and Adler— pretend to love each other was like watching the mouse and the cat. Except they both believed they were the cat, when in reality they were nothing but the dust their paws stepped on.
And, several months later, there she was. His beautiful, angelic Mary. While Holmes was busy with his cases and his whereabouts with Mistress (Miss, maybe?) Adler, he spent marvellous afternoons in the company of Miss Mary.
And then, he decided he needed to change again.
Holmes was busier than he had ever seen him, so he figured he'd be fine with his cocaine and his violin and his cases and The Woman.
Not his woman. Irene was as Holmes' as Holmes was hers. Meaning, less than nothing.
So he went down on one knee almost a year after they started officially seeing each other. And of course, she said yes.
After the ceremony was over, Watson grabbed a glass of wine when it hit him— there were four of them now. But he would have to choose between two of them. Although he feared that choice was already done.
He drank his wine quickly.
The first one to go was Irene. He expected it, really— Miss Adler was never meant for a cautious life. She always loved action to an extent it became dangerous.
Poison in her tea, they said.
Moriarty, Holmes barked.
Both, John guessed. It was a cruel irony, really— the way Miss Adler's died was her favourite way of murdering and conveniently just like her— delicate, elegant and it seemed innocent at first sight.
She truly looked like a sleeping angel when they found her corpse in the middle of the restaurant. Only the red stain on her lower lip and handkerchief said otherwise.
The second one to go is Sherlock, as much as it pained the doctor. And with him, Moriarty is gone. Even when his fellow companion claimed he didn't work to save he world, he still managed to be a hero.
Many nights after that, he stayed up late, wondering why he did it— why all of them did what they did. Wondering if they made the right choices.
He dreaded waterfalls for awhile after the incident. Being that the rest of his life.
So he went to the cemetery and left white roses —the only flowers that ever entered in his house— on an empty tomb before his tears wet the petals.
It was hard losing Sherlock.
And, many, many years later, when his hair had turned white and wrinkles surrounded the Watson's eyes, she left.
Her departure wasn't as elegant as Irene's or as heroic as Sherlock's, but it was hers, and that's what mattered to him. Cancer. It was fatal.
He looked through the window of the living room of 221B Baker Street, where everything had started and where everything ended.
Without anyone else's —but his— knowledge, he kept a personal object of the three absent members of his group. Miss Adler's shiniest necklace (found around her corpse's neck), Sherlock's violin (always under his permanently unmade bed) and Mary's favourite book, which was by her side when she died.
And, as he stared at the three objects, he added another one— the pen he used to write all the adventures he shared with Sherlock.
Then, he realized— he was again on his own.