John took a step forward, seeing his best mate, his partner in solving crime, his one love on the top of St. Barts hospital and medical academy, his arms out at his sides in a sick rendition of wings. "Goodbye, John. just remember its all a trick." Sherlock said before tilting himself towards the edge. he lost his footing and instead of the graceful swan-dive he had planned, he fell, his arms flopping around trying to get purchase on anything. "NO!" John screamed, running to maybe, just maybe, save his best mate. he got there too late. his hands reaching and scrambling to grasp Sherlocks wrist to look for a pulse under the ashy grey skin. "No. No. No. NO!" John cried out, sobbing as tears ran down his face. John was pushed out of the way as medics and Molly Hooper tried in vain to ressussitate Sherlock.
Molly pronounced Sherlock Holmes dead on Tuesday, March Tenth, at 12:55 AM, in the year 2012.
Days passed into weeks, weeks into months, and eventually, months into years. But John hardly noticed the change of time; for he was too busy greiving and painting and composing and drawing to realize this change. Mrs. Hudson checked on John everyday, and noticed some changes about the man. he had lost an extreme amount of weight, had dyed his hair dark brown(almost black), and had taken up deduction after spending days reading and re-reading Sherlocks blog.
"John, dear, you got a letter in the post today." Mrs Hudson called one night while John was deducing a case Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade from the New Scotland Yard had given him. John had solved many a cases for the Detective Inspector easily but this one in particular perplexed him. "John!" Mrs Hudson called, halfway up the steps to 221b Baker street. she entered the common room and saw John, rubbing his chin perplexedly. "Yes, Mrs Hudson?" he asked, not taking his eeyes from the mirror with images and notes from the case taped up. "You got a letter in the evening post. usssually letters arent mailed through the evening post so this must be special..." John looked at Mrs Hudson and then to the letter in her hand. "Thank you for bringing me my mail, Mrs Hudson, it was extremely kind of you. but i am going to request that you drop the envelope on the floor, wash your hands, put a surgical mask on, and cover all of the air passages in your flat." he said, pulling on a pair of blue latex surgical gloves. he picked up the envelope and examined it. in elegant nostalgic print, was written 'John Watson, 221B Baker Street, evening post (RUSH!)'. John recognized the handwriting and set it down on the desk to prepare for the long night ahead of him. he put on a gas mask he had gotten (stolen) from the New Scotland Yard, he put on a protective suit he had gotten (stolen) from St. Barts, and he had opened all the windows in the flat to keep it from imploding if there was a bomb in the envelope. Under the blacklight he used he only saw Mrs Hudsons fingerprints, but that was normal considering the post men were required to wear gloves. he looked at the space where normally there was a return adress, but there was none. that was typical for hate mail or fan mail, but any mail he received was never this expensive. the envelope had to have been 62 pounds at least. the writing was written with a fountain pen, and was written very elegantly. John pulled out a gold letter opener he had borrowed (stolen) from Lestrades desk in the New Scotland Yard, and opened the letter. there was nothing harmful inside so he slowly pulled out and opened the letter.
'John, you are probably wondering why i did it. i fell into sentiment. that is why. over the past few years i have traveled around the world, and heard many tales about you through my homeless network. you are probably working a case right now, but i must interrupt you. this whole case is just a plot to kill you. Sebastian Moran is the last person in Moriartys crime web that i have to take care of. Mycroft has been unussually helpful the last couple weeks with finding Moran. tonight you will hear three gunshots in the empty flat across the street. after ten minutes i would like you to unlock the flat for me. if you hear less than three or more than three shots, i want you to call Mycroft and Lestrade. they will take care of everything. But that more than likely wont be necesary.
Missing home,
Sherlock Holmes.'
John was confused. This wasnt possible. Sherlock was dead. but John didnt have time to dwell on this. a knock at the door was heard and John ruffled his dark somewhat shaggy hair and went to answer the door. "Mycroft. do come in. would you like some tea? buiscuits?" John asked politely, after opening the door to the british government. "No, thank you John. but i would like to see the letter you received." Mycroft said. "Its not your mail, Myc-" John was cut off by three gunshots. he started playing the piano, willing the minutes to pass faster. after ten minutes he went to the flat door and unlock it. John opened the door to a tall man with short blonde hair, who was wearing a baggy tee shirt and jeans. "Youre not Sherlock." John stated flatly. the man opened his mouth and a beautiful baritone voice came through the smirking cupids bow lips. "And youre not John." Johns eyes widened. it was the infamous Sherlock Holmes. "Sherlock?! thats really you?! Bloody Sherlock Holmes! you had me convinced you were dead!" John exclaimed slapping Sherlock across the face before pulling him into a hug. "Mrs Hudson! come up here please! you are never going to believe who just showed up on our doorstep! Mycroft! get your arse down here!" John called, extremely pissed that Mycroft would keep such information to himself. Mycroft came down the stairs in his ussual overly posh way. "What is it, John? Certainly you understand why i couldnt tell you." John shook his head. "No, of course not... Sherlock, what all did you say in the letter you sent John?" Mycroft asked Sherlock. "Read it for yourself." Sherlock said indiferently. "Although you may want to ask John to take it out of his pocket before you start tearing apart the flat." Sherlock said, seeing through his brothers plan. "But if you want to call Lestrade, you can. just tell him that i am Johns new flatmate and your other brother, Sterling Holmes. you would do that for me, wouldnt you brother?" Sherlock smiled smugly. Mycroft sighed deflatedly. only Sherlock could see and point out that Mycroft and Gregory were dating. "Of course, Sterling." Mycroft sneered at Sherlocks alias. "But you have to call at least once a week." Mycroft explained his terms while pulling out his phone and dialing Lestrades number. Sherlock smiled and pulled John up the steps to their shared flat. After a few minutes they heard Lestrade knock on the door. they heard quiet chatting and then Lestrade exclaim "ANOTHER INSANE HOLMES BROTHER?! Sterling best not hurt John... the poor bloke seemed so lost these past few years..." Sherlock laughed a deep and throaty laugh. "So tell me what all youve done these past few years." Sherlock insisted. John sighed. he knew this chat was coming for a long time. "Im sure you can deduce it. the piano, the paintings, the new cases..." John smiled. he leaned forward and pulled Sherlocks violin out from under the couch where Sherlock had left it. suddenly a small black paw shot out from under the couch, batting at Johns hand playfully. "Sorry, Sher, youre probably hungry, huh?" John asked suddenly getting up and a small black kitten followed after John into the kitchen. Sherlock jumped at the sight of the small black kitten. "John! there is a cat in the flat!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Thank you for pointing out the obvious, Sherlock." John chuckled, pulling a can of cat food out of the cupboard and scooping its contents into a bowl for the small black kitten. Sherlock spluttered out gibberish nonsense as Lestrade and Mycroft came up the stairs. Sherlock visibly changed himself and stood up. "Sterling Holmes. pleased to meet you, sir." Sherlock said softly and timidly, completely different from how Sherlock normally is. "How do you do, Sterling? my name is Gregory Lestrade. i am a detective inspector and-" he was cut off by Sterling. "And you are shagging my brother. its obvious because you make it obvious." Sterling said, giggling a bit. Mycroft was smirking and Lestrade just looked flabbergasted. "He- you- he-" he struggled to get his sentence out. "Just say whatever it is you will but i am simply my late brothers twin... " Sterling said softly before sitting back down. "Only one suga-" Sterling was cut off by "yes, yes i know. exactly like Sherlocks..." John drifted off in false mourning. of course it was false, Sherlock was actually Sterling and the only people who actually knew were Sherlock, Mycroft and John. Sterling smiled a knowing smile and took the tea from John. John smiled and handed a cup to Greg and Mycroft. Lestrade looked guilty, and mournful as he took the cup and took a sip. "I am sorry that i could not prevent what had happened... i wish i could have because Sherlock was a great man." Lestrade said sincerely. Sterling scoffed. "My late brother was an insensitive idiot. he should never have left such a fine man to fend for himself." Sterling said, pulling John into his arms and giving him a peck on the forehead. John shook his head. "no, he was a great man, but he made a poor decision. everybody makes mistakes, but we learn from them." Sterling chuckled. "ever the romantic, John." he chortled. "well, i believe you have settled in nicely. how long have you two known eachother?" Lestrade asked. "about an hour." John said simply as Greg gaped. "longer than you knew Mycroft before you two shagged for the first time." Sterling said. Lestrade and Mycroft both blushed before Mycroft stood up. "i believe we should be going now, John, Sterling. Greg, come along, i need to talk to you." Mycroft said before gracefully exiting the flat with Lestrade hot on his heels. John got up and shut the common room door and went to his piano. he started playing when Sherlock came over and stopped his playing. "John, i need to tell you something of great import. i am not actua-" Sterling was cut off by John sharply turning and punching him so hard he fell back on his bottom and his cheek sported a small cut and a growing bruise. "don't. don't start with that shite. if it is true, i dont want to hear it, because you didnt even go to your own twins funeral. you have no right talking about Sherlock the way you do, so if you truly need a place to stay tonight, then you can go sleep in the basement, because you are nothing to me as of right now, you pompous, sociopathic, non-sentimental FREAK!" John wailed, running to what used to be Sherlocks bedroom. Sterling was left in the common room, on his bottom, holding his cheek as he listened to the sobs and cries from the bedroom.