Hey guys, I know I haven't been on a lot, but on worries! I'm Backkk! please do leave reviews!
((& another chapter next week))
Sherlock, stands in front of a grave, frowning with confusement.
The grave stone reads, "RIP, Irene Adler." At first Sherlock thought that he had read it wrong, how could The Woman have died? It must have been someone else, not his Woman. But something nagged at the back is his mind, bothering him to just make sure. Irene Adler had, in the past faked her death -mind you, so had Sherlock- so this might have just been, well a playful trick.
That night, Sherlock sat with his laptop on his lap, searching all he could about Miss Adler; her house address, her recent visits to places, anything. Its began to seem that the Great Mr. Holmes was beginning to worry.
"John," Sherlock says, resting his eyes from the computer screen.
John looks up, at Mary first and then at Sherlock, just after closing his newspaper. "Mmhmm?"
"You do remember The Woman, right?" Sherlock asks, his eyes opened a sliver, staring at John intensely.
John chokes a bit on the cup of tea he'd been drinking. "Yeah. Irene Adler, right?" John asks, his voice showing obvious signs of his uncomfortable feelings of the topic.
"Stop, John," Sherlock says, his voice deep, and penetrating.
"Sherlock, I-" John starts off to speak again, but Sherlock cuts him.
"Hiding something of such importance, by failing, will obviously not pass through me, John. I have solved oh so many mysteries, even Lestrade can't count! John Watson, of all people trying to hide something from Sherlock Holmes! How is it inside those tiny brains of yours? It must be so boring. Anyway, back to the topic, tell me with that unintellectual mind of yours, to wha-" John wouldn't hear the end of it, Sherlock's constant bragging, so the speaks... rather yells to Sherlock, the truth that he'd been waiting for.
"SHE'S DEAD SHERLOCK! DEAD! YOU LEFT, THINKING OF NOBODY AT ALL! SO THAT WOMAN OF YOURS TOOK HER OWN LIFE! YOU- YOU WOULDN'T UNDERSTAND SHERLOCK, YOU IDIOTIC SOCIOPATH! SHE WENT TO YOUR 'GRAVE' EVERYDAY FOR THREE WEEKS, SHERLOCK! Oh, but I forgot, the bigger the brains, the less love there is. Am I right, Sherlock? There was no love left in you when you 'died', but we never stopped caring, Irene and I. She crossed an ocean, for the man who wouldn't even jump a puddle for her... But you never really cared, did you? Just went on, making yourself happy, oblivious to world around you!" With that, John got up from his chair, and walked out of the flat, Mary close behind.
Sherlock, stunned at John's words, sat there, on his chair, repeating everything John had yelled. A deep, hollow feeling, began to grow inside of Sherlock, leaving him shivering. Images of The Woman floated upon his thoughts, burning his eyes with tears. Sherlock hadn't cried in a long, long time, from when RedBeard had died. The feeing of sorrow still new to him, ate at his cold soul, as if thawing it.
Minutes after sitting alone in the room, Mary walked in, her face hiding any emotions that she truly felt. Swinging her hips as she walked, Mary searched through a pile of papers, just to find an envelope.
"This, Sherlock, is a letter she wrote you, but never sent, days after your..." Mary coughed, clearing her throat, "'death."
Sherlock looks up, his eyes rimmed with red, grabbed at the envelope, a sob threatening his throat.
Mary walked out of the room, giving Sherlock some privacy.
At first, Sherlock hugged the envelope, touching its rims, tracing over the signature that she had signed.
At last, he opened it.
Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
Please, please don't be dead. I know that you're somewhere out there, you wouldn't just leave everyone hanging off a cliff, would you? I ask once again, don't be dead. I know you can here me, and see me, too. The Sherlock I know, would care. if not for me, then for John. Don't you ever think of what you did to John? He's gone back to therapist, I know. We talk, rather a lot more now, since there is no one who feels us in the same way.
I just can't help the thought, Sherlock. The thought that we can have something more, other than an end of the world dinner; Mrs. Hudson. I know you're out there, just please come back. For me, Irene Adler.