A/C: I am a bit new to Fanfiction so this is my first story to post, so I thought it would be prudent to start with a little one-shot. But this would not have been possible without my best friend, and she knows who she is. So enjoy, please review and no flames! However, constructive criticism is welcomed.
Musings
The sleuth sat back in the basket chair and admired his work. I have done well, he thought to himself. But suddenly his thoughts dwelt no longer on the carefully carved dart that lay finished before him. Instead, they settled upon the very chair he sat in. The very same wicker weaved chair in which his beloved comrade used to sit and quietly read the London Times. Where his Boswell used to sit and patiently wait until his fits of boredom and depression would pass. Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, stood up and sat down instead in the wing backed chair that he he usually claimed for himself. Sadly, he averted his eyes from the memorable wicker chair. Watson, his brother in all but blood, had moved out of the flat to marry a woman; to start a family. Of late I have not seen Watson, but then again he mu-suddenly the tentative knocking of persons unknown came to his ears and interrupted his musings. The detective had been in such deep thought he failed to hear the person coming up the stairs. Knowing full well it was not to be a client, considering the late hour, hesitantly he said,
"Come in."
Slowly the door opened and in strode his companion, his Boswell, the missing clue to any complex case: John H. Watson.