Chapter 1 – A Lonely Observation

AN: Urrr...first FF on fanfiction dot net, I kinda' found myself drifting off one day to find that my end result was half of this. I thought: well since you don't have anything else to do, why the fuck not :D

So enjoy this FF to your extent, I don't blame you if you dislike it, you probably see like millions of these (my originality is so original ;D ) But leave a review, fav or even follow (you like this story?...I love you...seriously...) if you please :)

Please, Sherlock, just somehow be alive, one last miracle, please, Sherlock, please.

The dark curly haired head watched on from the dark shades of the oak tree.

Just stop it Sherlock, stop it!

A small frown came upon his face, his turquoise eyes sparkled with anger, very like John to repeat words uselessly, but his face (and turmoil mind) was quickly smooth and bland again.

One last miracle Sherlock, please, just one last one.

It was hard to see his only friend like that. So distraught and twisted. He was almost disturbed and angry at himself, not being able to speak his only friend because of a selfish decision.

And why distraught, hmm….yes, why chose distraught out of all mourning words? Completely, obvious, why was he even asking himself?

Pacing, back and forth, human nature to do so when pressure is on them, first sign of distraught.

Occasional pauses in speech, probably means state of mind is not as stable at physical being, a second sign.

Restless, un-able to just pause there without something to fidget with, and –

'Quit it.' He muttered to himself 'Observing is what got you in this mess in the first place.'

And you know what Sherlock? I don't believe a single word you said.

He grinned a bit, yes, of all people, he would think John would be the one most reluctant to believe the alibi that 'Richard Brook' created for him.

A miracle, shouldn't be hard for Mr Sherlock Homes, the Rechienbach hero.

Chuckling softly to himself, yes, he remembered John glaring at him when he was not accepting the gift. Then he snorted, cuff links, bah, he wore buttons on his cuffs not cuff links, they were just too messy and inconvenient to handle with. Stupid people these days, still producing objects of no use for the public when they could be finding the newest way to advance in modern warfare.

He was ripped out his dislike in the public choices with some noises he'd rather not heard over a grave.

John stomped across Sherlock's 'grave', another sign he just wouldn't believe Sherlock.

'And you know what else? If you do happen to return, I will beat you to pulp for making all of us suffer.'

Yes, yes he will, mused Sherlock, typical John.

Then.

Pity, the soil was so perfect, John ruined it.

He threw down a supermarketcard "Bloody useless thing." and walked off in a steady pace. Leaving to the gates.

'I'm sorry.' Sherlock signed 'I really am.' And he turned, flipping up his collar, his big coat swinging in rhythm with him and he too walked off, towards the dark arches.

A slender woman was standing by the arches. Cloaked in a black Russian anorak and gloved in black leather gloves was Miss Irene Adler. Full in flesh.

'Sherlock.'

'Miss Adler.'

The Woman smiled and walked closer towards Sherlock, she hooked her arm on to Sherlock's.

'I did what you asked. Found a passage close to Halloways, just where you friend John lives, you'll be able to check on your 'friend' then.'

She cuddled closer, her eyes upon Sherlock, adoration not completely hidden in her smile.

'You know that you could have found this out yourself.'

There was silence, Sherlock refused to answer, Irene sighed, there were times where information or emotion was impossible to extract of Sherlock, this, was one of those times.

'Well then, what do you think of the passage I just told you?'

Sherlock barely acknowledged Irene's pout added on with the sentence, but replied anyways.

'You mean the dark alleyway just between Halloways and the local hospital? Many rats there, also some of London's worst fugitives started at that place, are you really sure that is the best place to go, Irene?'

Irene frowned slightly, her mood was beginning to deteriorate, Sherlock knew a tantrum was about to start if he didn't try and compliment or at least talk to her.

Sherlock sighed, not looking down at Irene.

'Please don't frown, Irene, it took time to save that head of yours.'

Irene curled her arms around Sherlock, her smile also lifted.

'But you saved it anyways.'

Sherlock pulled away, a bend on his thin eyebrows, physical contact was a little too much from the Woman, touchy feely was never really his part of daily attributes.

'I didn't let myself get saved to let myself to become a toy.'

Irene smiled and traced Sherlock's chest, he pushed her away.

'But you like it don't you.' purred Irene 'You're enjoying it.'

Sherlock started to walk away, his shoes clicking against the stone-paved floor and turned to the lighter alleyways of Halloway in the midst of darkness. The close to John the better.

'I rather I can return to my normal life then stay with you.'

'Do you?'

'Yes, I do.'

'Alright then, will you have dinner with me?'

'I'm not hungry.'

Irene pouted,

'You're never hungry.'

'I know that, and it will that stay that way until I find a way back.'

'And when you find a way back?'

'Maybe.'

A smile danced across Irene's plump lips, she hurried up to catch up with the dark collared man.

'Good.'

Watson slowly unlocked his new flat he came to the scene of a young man standing in front of the window.

Unmoving and quiet.

Like Sherlock.

He almost gasped out Sherlock's name, but stopped himself in time, Sherlock was dead, and it would stay that way, no matter how much he wanted a miracle.

The man turned, straw colored hair, in fact, looked exactly like straw, baby blue eyes that sparkled with life.

'Hello!' he said brightly, extending a pale long hand 'Ricky Moors, your new flatmate. I have already moved most of my stuff in. There's two rooms, left and right, you can choose first.'

John was slightly shocked, alright, he was definitely not Sherlock. No-where near him, way too cheerful, even in the best of mood Sherlock couldn't go to such extent in 'happy-land'.

'Uhh…..' John said while shaking the extended pale hand. To be honest, John didn't care which room he got 'No, it's alright, you can choose first.'

The man beamed, pearly white teeth against pale golden skin, apparently this man was born in the very inner of Smileyland, because John had absouletely no idea how the man could ever grin that wide.

'Excellent, I knew you would say that, most of my stuff if in the left wing.' And with that the man rushed in to the corridors and soon was shoving in the remaining brown cardboard boxes.

Well, Watson mumbled to himself, a fresh new start.

Sherlock watched from the outside across the street, the only thing illuminating the street was the electrical lights ahead that turned on a few minutes ago. His was face blank, merely watching.
Well, he mused, Watson seems happy enough, maybe I don't need to return. A sudden caw from a raven caught his attention briefly. Then he turned his head back to see Watson's expression turn sorrow, he slumped down on the velvet sofa, the wrinkle lines clearer than ever. Apparently the loss of his friend was taking a bigger toll than John would show to everyone else. Sadness was anew across John's face. Then John muttered something, of course, Sherlock couldn't hear from so far away, but he could mouth read.

When's the excitement going to return?

'Soon' muttered Sherlock, though aware his friend wouldn't hear 'After I bring myself back. After all this mess.'

He was thinking of his friend again, the one who threw himself off a building, the one who had entrusted his last 'note' to him. The only person who dragged him out of the nutshell he was leaving in back before. He chuckled hollowly; literally dragged. But turns out all his effort were somewhat futile; John was back in the safety of the nutshell, away from the hurt and anger.

Safe once again.

But he wasn't used to safe, safe wasn't something guaranteed when you lived with Sherlock Homes. Oh no, in fact, it was the other way around, you were almost guaranteed that something dangerous would happen at least once a month.

It was very thrilling.

Then Watson noticed a figure, across the street, staring.

Curly hair and tall with a long dark coat to boot.

Sherlock.

No, it couldn't be, he watched him die. All of it, everything, the bike, the fall, the note. Just too much evidence to prove it was fake, it was logical he was dead.

He turned his head away (as reluctant as he was), imagining wouldn't help him, accepting the fact will, so accept it, accept that Sherlock is gone.

But then he whipped his head back, maybe, just maybe Sherlock survived, after all he was the amazing detective, maybe–

The figure was gone.

Watson rubbed his eyes, he could have sworn that there was a figure there, just a couple of moments ago. Then he heard a crash and a bang. Ricky stumbled out of the corridor, a purple lamp on his head covering his eyes.

'John? Uh….I can't see.'

Ricky was a decent man, he was nice enough, though clumsy, Watson had learnt to keep Ricky away from glass, porcelain, laptops and any other delicate object. Ricky was a reader, he was constantly on the sofa pouring over either Great Expectations or Jane Eyre or some other brick book, sometimes even on the computer typing his daily blog.

Every time Watson saw Ricky typing vigorously on the keyboards, it would bring back memories of Sherlock frowning over John's own personal blog, always pointedly pointing out what was wrong and complaining about his choice of names for each case. It was pretty funny as most mornings started with Sherlock shouting over what John had missed and what John had got wrong and fussing over the thoughtless titles John had used.

It usually ended up with a very bored Sherlock pacing around the room and complaining about the loss of interesting cases and nicotine patches. And he would probably start banging around the room and causing Mrs. Hudson to run up and tell Sherlock off about the noise levels.

At least, that was what it used to be.

Before the drop.

Watson shook his head, no use dreaming again, he scolded himself, no use steam-rolling you mood again with Sherlock's…fall.

'John?'

John snapped out of his train of thoughts and turned to Ricky. His arms was speckled with blood and pieces of broken glass, Watson must had missed some accident involving a brittle object during his thinking time.

Watson jumped up.

He had already reached for tissue by the coffee table and started to move towards the injured man. Ricky scratched his head with his non-harmed arm whilst John handed him the tissue that he had pulled out. John had his head stuck in his closet rustling for the medic kit he had sworn to have left somewhere in there. After a few more moments of sticking his hand in some anonymous pile and one or two annoyed grunts; an ancient medic kit of the 1990s made its debut.

Pulling out a wrapping tape and a bit of antiseptic cream, it still seemed in date, this substance was made to last and according to John's judgment, it was still in good condition. He pulled out most of the glass fragments in Ricky's arm and started smearing and dabbing the yellow goo across the cuts.

'You're good at this.' Ricky mused.

Ricky was wincing from the sting of the iodine from the mixture John used, yet he had still made the time for a random comment to pop up. Even though Ricky was so weird, John certainly had to applauded his will.

'I was….an field doctor in the war.'

'Oh. Nice.'

John cocked an eyebrow, a little unsure whether his new friend was being sarcastic or a plain nice in his way.

'I was being nice.' said Ricky, his eyes twinkling, his blue eyes smiling, 'In case you thought I was making fun of you.'

John nodded a little and was now wrapping the antiseptic tape around Ricky's arm. The arm was still bleeding, but was certainly a lot better than it was a minute ago.

'My own pa was a field doctor, or at least, according to my Ma.' continued Ricky, seemingly oblivious now, to his wounds 'I thought he was the coolest doctor out there. Saving lives and all. Until me and Ma got the news, he passed away trying to save a man, when he was already dying with malaria.'

John froze. His hand midway to tying off the tape.

'Oh.' John said slowly, pulling himself out of the shocked trance, he continued finishing off the tape. 'I'm….sorry. I didn't know I reminded you of bad memories.'

Ricky smiled, a tinge of sadness was in the smile.

'It's not your fault of course, it's okay. I got over it; Ma is just the only one still upset, you should meet her sometime, help her get over it.' Then he stood up as soon as John had finished sticking the tape down. Ricky started to cuff his sleeves back in place.

'Thanks, John!' He grinned; the goofy smile was back again. 'Certainly makes me glad I've got myself a doctor for a roommate."

For John, he wasn't sure whether Ricky knew or not, but John was definitely glad too that he had found himself a friend who didn't avoid him for his strange backgrounds to war.

Just like Sherlock.

He didn't care when he realized that John was a doctor. In fact, he had completely welcomed him in to his arms and brought John back out to the world of mysteries. With him, he had solved miraculous miracles, gone through many ridiculous situations.

It was funny how John was okay with this peacefulness, even if he missed Sherlock. He guessed a break once in a while wasn't the worst thing ever. Especially after everything...especially the fal-

John tilted his head back, gently tapping it on to the hard oak base of the chair, it was a little painful, but it brought him out of the train of thoughts which its destination was defiantly to Hell at this rate.

He remembered when he was a kid, how when the baddie was killed he cheered in front of the television. The baddie was dead! Everything was finally over.

But he never thought how the lover or friend of the baddie was feeling, or the other perspective on the baddie's side. Perhaps he had a good reason for doing things, perhaps he was angry and wanted revenge for his dead child.

Perhaps he had been framed.

He never really went in to the subject. But John had always wondered why Sherlock would kill himself over a rather notorious problem never really explained. Sherlock always got to the end of the subject and the case, he never left it off with a illogical conclusion, like him killing all the cases for fame.

It was surely the most ridiculous thing he had heard in his life.

Sherlock.

Fame.

Those two were about the most mortal of enemies to one another, Sherlock never found the public much worth anything else than a probability for an exciting case to pass (kill) his time. Anything else in Sherlock's eye was just a pain in the arse, like how the astronomy was as a piece of information.

Everyone else besides cases were just useless; so what if they liked detectives solving cases? The detective didn't care.

So why...why would Sherlock ever...kill himself over something that should have never bothered him in the first place.

What was the truth.

What was the real Sherlock.

Where on Earth was Sherlock now?

:E Vampire teeth.

Flame, if you wish, please go ahead ;)