The Blind Blinker

by bringonthew0nder

Sherlock and John are brought a case with mysterious circumstances and have nothing to go on but the folder the Doctor left in 1969. John finds a silly looking man on a tape that gives the pair a decisive lead, leading them to Sally Sparrow and the Weeping Angels. But what they find instead is something Sherlock can't fight on his own and tragedy seems to be right on their heels.

By bringonthew0nder (Kitty)

They got me.

The angels, I mean. The Weeping Angels.

'Don't blink,' he told us, 'Don't even blink. Blink and you're dead.'

I am now stranded in the eighties. Or so I'm told. Regardless, I have no way of getting back. Sherlock is still in the present. Or the future, from my point of view. And he has no idea where I am. I've recorded the date and time roughly of when I moved backwards in time.

December the first, twenty-thirteen. I am now in December the first, nineteen eighty five.

My name is John Watson and this is my account of my encounters with the Weeping Angels.

It started about two weeks ago. Funny, it doesn't sound long ago, but it feels like forever now. We never should have taken the case. But God knows there was nothing in the world to stop Sherlock from taking it. It's not really his fault though. I'm sure if he knew what was going to happen...ah, well.

Lestrade came to us with a case. It had completely baffled his team, per usual, which is why he came to us. Anderson was with him, which instantly thrilled Sherlock. He loved when Anderson came to him with a case that he couldn't solve.

"Anderson! What mystery has baffled your diminutive mind today?" Sherlock said gleefully.

"Sherlock…" I started to speak, putting a hand on his shoulder as if to stop him. Truthfully I wasn't too fond of Anderson either, mostly on Sherlock's behalf because he treats him so badly. But then Sherlock wasn't kind to him either. I was in no place to insult either man; they'd been fighting long before I'd been around. '

Anderson started to sneer a reply, but Lestrade put a hand up to stop him and said, "We have a case for you." Sherlock's raised eyebrow was enough to say 'I figured as much.'

"It's really strange, though. More than usual. People have gone missing, more than a usual kidnapping or cult thing. The property i-"

"Boring." I rolled my eyes and told him to shut up and listen. Sherlock then rolled his eyes at me and let out a dramatic sigh.

"Go on, but get to the point." Lestrade gave him a look, but it went over Sherlock's head.

"Cars park outside the property, no keys, but parked as if meant to not be there very long. We even found a kid in a car seat with the windows rolled down. And one of my men went missing when we went in to investigate." There it was again. That look. He was vaguely interested, but right now I could see him still waving it off. Truth be told, it sounded like a cult thing to me.

"Anything connecting the people taken? The cars? The house?"

"No, no, and no," Lestrade replied quickly, "We've checked a hundred times and there is nothing, nothing, connecting anything. I'm lost, Sherlock." Anderson finally stepped forward, brandishing a thin metal item.

"We also found this." Sherlock took it quickly. It was a small laptop - no, a portable DVD player. He took it to his desk, flipping it open. A funny looking bloke came on the screen. He had dark brown hair spiked up in the front and was wearing black glasses. He squinted at us when he first appeared and I almost laughed at the expression on Sherlock's face. It lit up like a Christmas tree and I could tell he was in. I wasn't quite sure why he was so intrigued, to be honest.

"It's an Easter egg," he said quietly, entranced by the funny little man.

"A what?" I asked him.

"An Easter egg. It's the term to refer to a hidden feature on a DVD, a hidden video of some sort usually. But this...this one is special. What DVDs did you find him on, Lestrade?" Lestrade looked confused.

"We...It was given to us from a case from a few years ago. It was the same scenario: people missing, cars parked outside, no explanation. This was just found lying in the house where it all happened. Then it just stopped. Business as usual." That did it. Sherlock's attention was caught. Nothing on earth was going to keep him from taking this case, not even me. Not that I could stop him on a normal day, but usually I had some say. As I expected, he opened his mouth and said,

"I'll take it." I smiled widely, thinking this would be particularly interesting or...dangerous. Sherlock and I share that one major flaw: the irresistible attraction to danger. And Sherlock and I always had each other's backs so we managed to keep each other safe. Until now, anyway.

We all turned to the man on the screen, put on pause. "I'll let you get to it then," Lestrade said, clearing his throat. Then he left with Anderson and Sherlock and I sat in front of the screen. Sherlock clicked 'play' and it began.

He just sat there for several seconds before remarking, "Yep that's me." followed by "Yes I do." Sherlock furrowed his brow and leaned forward, resting his chin on his fingers. "What…?" I started to ask, but Sherlock put a finger to my lips to shush me. I frowned at him and swatted his hand away after a second. The man continued to say, "Yep, and this." followed by, "Are you gonna read out the whole thing?" and "I'm a time traveler. Or I was. I'm stuck in 1969." Then a young girl popped out from the side and said furiously, "We're stuck. All of space and time he promised me. Now I've got a job in a shop, I've got to support him!" He looked at her and replied, "Martha! " while gesturing at us. "Sorry," she mumbled after a second.

I glanced at Sherlock again. His eyes were glued to the screen. He was paying attention very closely, making deductions, I suppose. I could practically see the wheels turning in his head. The conversation, or half of one it seemed, continued. "Quite possibly…'fraid so…38!" I was completely lost. We were missing the other converser and without them, this meant nothing to us, or to me at least. Maybe Sherlock could figure it out. "People don't understand time; it's not what you think it is," he continued. I raised an eyebrow. Time? "Complicated." I frowned. "Very complicated." Then the man made a noise, more or less reluctant tried to explain, "People assume that time is a strict progression of cause to effect... but actually, from a non-linear, non-subjective viewpoint, it's more like a big ball of wibbly-wobbly... timey-wimey... stuff." That was when Sherlock started talking to the man.

He snorted and said quietly, "That's ridiculous. Wonderful sentence to explain time." The man replied, "It got away from me, yeah." Sherlock and I exchanged a look. That was weird. "It's like he can hear you," I laughed. Then the man in the screen replied, "Well I can hear you." I froze. That was weirder than the first time. Sherlock smirked, not looking convinced it was anything more than a coincidence. "Ridiculous…" he scoffed again. "Well not hear you exactly, but I know everything you're gonna say," said the man. "Sherlock…" I mumbled. "Oh come off it, John, it's just a recording!" Sherlock said, looking slightly frustrated. He paused the video and stood up. He stretched before telling me, "Call Lestrade and ask him if there was anything else he had on this case. We need to make sure we have all the evidence. This certainly isn't helping much. I have nothing to go on." I rolled my eyes and gestured to the frozen DVD. "What about him?" He just closed the lid. That was his answer to anything he didn't understand. Just get rid of it.

We should have stopped right there. But I called Lestrade instead. Another mistake, another step further to my downfall.

I was very curious, there was no way either of us were giving up just yet. Lestrade seemed surprised and said, "No, I don't think...oh, look at that. Hold on, John, there's a new folder on my desk. I hadn't seen that before. It's got Sherlock's name on it, so I assume it's something for him. I'll run it through a scan to make sure it doesn't have anything explosive, you know how it is, and then I'll send Anderson to bring it over." I inwardly groaned, not thinking I could stand another insult contest between Anderson and Sherlock. "Can't you just-" I started, but Lestrade caught on immediately, "No, I can't. I would, normally, but no one else knows about this case, nor is anybody else to know. It's secret and honestly, supposed to be closed. He and I are the only ones who know about it besides you and Sherlock. Behave." Then he hung up the phone. I put down the receiver and saw Sherlock sitting on the couch, hands together in thought. His eyes were closed and I opened my mouth to yawn when he snapped, "Shut up, I'm thinking." I threw him a slightly annoyed look, but it was lost on him anyway.

Anderson knocked on our flat door about half an hour later and roughly handed Sherlock the package. "Freak," he spat at my best friend. I scowled at him and Sherlock replied, "Thank you for your opinion, Anderson." before shutting the door in his face. I smirked quickly, but dropped it before Sherlock could see. I was supposed to be the impartial party here. I ripped off the note on top that was in Lestrade's handwriting and read it aloud while Sherlock cut open the package. "This was dropped off anonymously at my office with a note explaining that it was found and confiscated by policemen in 1969 on the doorstep of a newly built Victorian mansion. There have been strange messages found in there apparently, but no one has bothered much to try and decode any of it or find out what it means. I didn't look in myself, but there isn't anything harmful in there. Just pieces of paper and some photographs. Hope you can solve this one. I believe if anyone can do it, you can, Sherlock. -Lestrade". Sherlock pulled out a picture of a pretty looking statue of an angel. Little did I know that that pretty little angel was deadly. It meant nothing to either of us. "Strange, isn't it? This whole thing," I said to Sherlock. He looked up and mumbled a positive response and nodded his head.

I looked out the window after a while. Night had fallen and all we had found in the package was a few photographs of an old Victorian mansion, an old letter from a woman who lived in the 1920s along with a few photos of herself, photos of a warning in the wallpaper of presumably the same house from a man called the Doctor to a woman named Sally Sparrow, a list of DVDs, and a barely readable piece of paper that appeared to be half-typed and half written on. Not a lot made sense right now and our only lead was the strange man on the DVD. Deciding it was too late to keep working, I tapped Sherlock on the shoulder. He was staring hard at the picture of the statue. He hadn't looked at anything else. He didn't look up.

"Sherlock," I said loudly, "Time for bed." He didn't stir, but just mumbled, "No, I'm busy." I sighed and snatched the picture out of his hand without ripping it. He finally looked up and I pointed a reprimanding finger at him and gave me a look of exasperation. But I knew if I didn't make him he wouldn't sleep until he finished the case. I pulled him up by his arms and then he finally went off to bed. I stayed in the main room for a while to ensure he didn't pull an all-nighter as I had caught him doing before. I don't know a lot of things about Sherlock and he'll always be such a mystery to me, but I do know he is very lacking in self-care. Eating and sleeping are not high on his priority list.

I flipped open the DVD player, pulling the folder of items next to me. After looking at the picture of the wallpaper warning, I guessed this man was called the Doctor. I rewinded the tape to the beginning and started it. I looked at him and he looked at me. "The Doctor…" I mumbled, "Is that who you are?" I meant that to be a rhetorical question to myself, but to my surprise, he replied, "Yep, that's me." "No, no, no, you already said that, you say the same thing every time," I replied quickly. "Yes I do," he bantered. "You already said that," I said, finding myself now arguing with the Doctor. That's who he said he was, so I presumed. This was odd. "Yep, and this," the Doctor replied. I paused the disk. I put my hands on my face in exasperation. This wasn't happening.

"Noo, no, no, no, John, think logically, it's just a recording, you're not having a conversation, he's just saying random things...that happen to correspond to what you're saying." I pulled out the water-damaged piece of paper and saw vague remnants of words. It looked like some kind of script that someone had filled in with another half of a conversation. "No way…" I thought. Could it possibly be the other half of the conversation this guy was having? I decided to read it, or at least read what I could. It was very blurry.

My glasses were across the table, so pulling them on, I read the first words, the written ones as:

Me: And there he is

SS: The Doctor

Me: Who's the Doctor?

SS: He's the Doctor

Okay, so I was right. It was the Doctor. The typed part next read: 'Yep, that's me.' That's what he said. The Doctor. That's what he had said. So this was the conversation...so how could he be responding to me? Or was it just in my head and I was letting him get to me? This was insane. I pressed play and mumbled the typed bits under my breath, "Yep that's me. Yes I do. Yep, and this," and suddenly the Doctor jumped in and said with me, "Are you gonna read out the whole thing?" I found myself mumbling an apology. This was ridiculous! "Who are you?" I found myself asking him furiously. "I'm a time traveller. Or I was. I'm stuck in 1969," he replied calmly. I glanced at the script as the girl, Martha, jumped on screen, just as she had earlier. I had already seen this bit. "I saw this already," I told him. "Quite possibly," he said. " But you can't be talking to me! You're in 1969!" I found myself telling him. "'Fraid so," came his ever rational-sounding response.

"Sherlock said you were an Easter Egg. All this stuff came from a package found forty years ago!"

"38!"

I did a quick calculation in my head. "It's actually been 43." Then I remembered this tape had been found a few years ago. "Okay, 38 from your point of view, fine."

"People don't understand time. It's not what you think it is."

"Oh please," I said, still not believing I was having this conversation, "So go on then, tell me, what is time?"

"Complicated." I frowned at him.

"Tell me anyway, I may not be as clever as Sherlock, but-"

"Very complicated."

"I'm listening, aren't I?"

"People assume that time is a strict progression of cause to effect... but actually, from a non-linear, non-subjective viewpoint, it's more like a big ball of wibbly-wobbly... timey-wimey... stuff."

"Yeah, I saw this, Sherlock thought your sentence was rubbish."

"It got away from me, yeah."

"This is ridiculous. Sherlock said you couldn't hear us, you can't actually hear me!"

"Well I can hear you."

"...What?" I had heard the next sentence before, but it still made me the shivers.

"Well not hear you exactly, but I know everything you're going to say."

"This is where we stopped the tape. How on earth could you know what I'm going to say?"

"Look to your left." That sentence scared me more than the previous one. I looked and saw the folder and the script lying on top of it.

"What, do you mean this?" I asked, waving the paper in front of the screen as if he could see it.

"I've got a copy of the finished transcript, it's on my autocue," he replied simply.

"But it's in my hand, you don't have it, but they...they found it in 1969 in the Victorian mansion. Oh. You already had it before we did."

"I got it in the future!"

"What, no, how could you...oh I suppose you would have had to, wouldn't you?" I rubbed my face again in exasperation. All this talk of time travel and apparent paradoxes was making my head hurt.

He waved his hands dismissively at me and said, "Oh, wibbley wobbley, timey wimey…"

"Ugh," I just said in reply, losing my patience quickly.

"What matters is, we can communicate. We have got big problems now. They have taken the blue box, haven't they? The Angels have the phone box." Now I was really confused.

"The Angels have the what? Blue box, phone box, what are you on about? What angels?" Then I remembered the statue of an angel Sherlock had been looking at. I grabbed it off the corner of the table and looked at it. It had it's hands in front of it's face and looked like it was crying, and it was most definitely an angel. "You mean this?"

"Creatures from another world," he said ominously.

"But...it's a statue, like a garden statue, like a gnome."

"Only when you see them."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Lonely Assassins, they used to be called. No one quite knows where they came from, but they're as old as the Universe, or very nearly, and they have survived this long because they have the most perfect defense system ever evolved. They're quantum locked. They don't exist when they're being observed. The moment they are seen by any other living creature, they freeze into rock. No choice, it's a fact of their biology. In the sight of any living thing they literally turn to stone. And you can't kill a stone. 'Course, a stone can't kill you either, but then you turn your head away. Then you blink, and oh yes it can!" the Doctor explained.

"That's...impossible," I said slowly, but felt a small seed of doubt root it's way in my brain. I looked at the picture again. "But it's just a statue."

"That's why they cover their eyes. They're not weeping, they can't risk looking at each other. Their greatest asset is their greatest curse. They can never be seen. Loneliest creatures in the Universe. And I'm sorry. I am very, very sorry, it's up to you now."

"Up to me? What am I supposed to do? Magic angels who are from...from some other place, planet? This is insane," I laughed. I bet I was asleep and just having a bad dream.

"The blue box; it's my time machine. There is a world of time energy in there that they could feast on forever, but the damage they would do could switch off the sun. You have got to send it back to me."

"There is no blue box, no time machine, no angels! This isn't happening!"

"And that's it, I'm afraid. There's no more from you on the transcript, that's the last I've got. I don't know what stopped you talking but I can guess. They're coming. The Angels are coming for you, but listen -your life could depend on this- don't blink. Don't even blink. Blink and you're dead. They are fast, faster than you could believe. Don't turn your back, don't look away, and don't blink. Good luck."

"What?!" I yelped. "Coming for me…?" That was it. I closed the DVD lid and decided to tell Sherlock in the morning. This guy was crazy. Angel statues can't move, they don't kill people. My paranoia must be coming back or something. This wasn't real. I put the folder and the angel picture and script underneath the DVD player and headed downstairs to my bedroom and slept with troubled dreams about the stone angels.

The next morning, Sherlock rose early, per usual, and was sitting on the chair quietly, sipping his coffee. His sleeve was rolled up and had already applied two nicotine patches to himself. "Sherlock, you're not supposed to use those anymore," I groaned at him. "I heard your 'conversation' with the tape last night; you weren't very quiet. Moving angels, quite an interesting concept. Quantum locked, he said. Can you show me the bit where he explains it again?" he asked simply. "Um, yeah, I just thought you would think it was a load of rubbish," I replied, not very surprised that he had eavesdropped, or at least listened hard for information. "Of course I do, but that doesn't mean I don't want to listen to it again. It's a sound theory, but the thought of not being of this world is a bit far fetched. Just show it to me." I lifted the lid and rewinded the tape to the piece about the angels and sat through it once more.

Sherlock looked at me and I was immediately filled with annoyance. It was a knowing look that I was supposed to know what he was thinking, but I really didn't. Do I ever? "What is it?" I asked after a second, giving in to his stare. He glanced at the wallpaper warning photos and back at me and said, "Our next move is to talk to Sally Sparrow."

"What? Why? Lestrade said no one else was supposed to know about this case," I replied firmly.

"She won't tell anyone, she's involved somehow and I need to know how. She can give us a lead, perhaps."

"But Sherlock, her name was written in a house decades old, how do we know she's still…" I trailed off. The script. There had been an SS written in as one of the conversers with the Doctor. I rifled through the papers we had and found it and handed it to him. I pointed to the initials and said, "SS. Could that be her? If it is, she's probably still around, Sherlock!" Delighted I had found a clue, a put my hands in my pockets and rocked on my heels slightly, waiting for his response. Sherlock simply gave me a small smile to indulge me and said, "Let's go." He grabbed his coat and scarf, throwing them on quickly and shoved my coat onto my shoulders since I wasn't getting ready fast enough. Then he guided me rather forcibly through the door and we left our flat. Typical Sherlock, no one can ever keep up with him.

We went through a directory we found at the café near the flat and found her quickly. Sally Sparrow is not a common name. Almost gleefully, Sherlock called a cab and we made our way there within a half an hour. She owned a DVD shop with a man by the name of Nightingale, a promising name seeing as the letter that was in our evidence envelope was written by a Kathy Nightingale. Relative perhaps? We had yet to find out. Sherlock strode in, confident as always and found a disheveled looking young man sitting at the desk. He looked slightly affronted at my companion's appearance, almost intimidated. That was normal.

"I'm looking for Sally Sparrow, is she here?" The man immediately went on defense.

"Why, who are you? Are you the police? Is she in trouble?" Sherlock opened his mouth to reply when I stepped on his foot purposely to shut him up and said,

"No, we're just, ah, old acquaintances. We're not the police. Dr. John Watson and this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes," I introduced myself, extending a hand to him. He cautiously took it and said,

"Larry Nightingale. She's never mentioned you before. She's in the back." He looked as though he was sizing Sherlock up and when he stood, he appeared to be trying to beat him in height. Not many people sized up to Sherlock and Larry didn't either. He led us to the back room, where a young, pretty looking girl with wavy dirty blond hair looked up at us.

"Hello," she said politely, "And who might you be?" I glanced at Sherlock who extended his hand to her,

"Sherlock Holmes. We must have met before, I'm sure of it." There he went with his 'I'm trying to trick you into thinking you know me but you really don't' act. It nearly never worked and just managed to confuse the person. In this case, though, this girl seemed sharper than most. She got up and walked right past him, saying,

"No, I'm sure we haven't." I raised my eyebrows and laughed slightly at Sherlock. He looked slightly bewildered by her attitude, but also impressed. So was I. He didn't seem to affect her the way he affected others. But he still knew how to push people's buttons.

"The Angels," he said loudly to her, "We're here about the Weeping Angels." That did it. She froze in her tracks and slowly wheeled around to face us. Larry looked mortified and to be honest, I felt a bit bad for him. He looked absolutely terrified.

"I think you'd better sit down," she told us, leading us to the back room and on to some low chairs and offered us tea. We both declined. She didn't look as scared as her companion, but she did look very unsettled. Sherlock gazed at her intently when she and Larry settled down across from us in their own chairs. She played with her hands for a minute before Larry put his on top of hers to stop them and Sherlock inquired, "Tell us about the Weeping Angels."

"Promise you won't laugh. Not that it's funny, but the police didn't believe me when Kathy went missing," she said shakily. I looked at Sherlock and gave him a warning stare.

"I'll try. Start at the beginning, but don't be boring," he replied. She didn't look satisfied, but she looked at me and I nodded seriously. I, at least, wouldn't laugh, even if I didn't believe her.

"It started when I wanted to photograph an old house in Wester Drumlins. It was very pretty, but it contained a terrible creature."

"'The Angels," Sherlock interrupted. She glared at him, as did Larry and I and she continued,

"Yes. I'm getting there. Everything I'm telling you is important even if it doesn't please you quite yet," she snapped.

"Alright, go on," Sherlock waved her off.

"I jumped over the fence and when I went into a certain room to photograph a fallen chandelier, I noticed the wallpaper was peeling. I peeled it back and there was my name and a warning to beware the Weeping Angels. I had seen the angel out in the yard, covering it's eyes, so it looks like it's weeping, yeah?..." As she continued her story, I found many things hard to believe and yet impossibly to dismiss. She had had the tape. She took those pictures. And her friend Kathy Nightingale disappeared thanks to the angels. They sent her back in time where she lived out the rest of her life. Kathy was Larry's sister. He looked very upset when Sally mentioned it, but he had obviously accepted it a while ago and didn't blame Sally for it at all. Then she mentioned a detective who had gone missing. Billy Shipton, who had then died a few minutes later in front of her at an old age, having lived his life out in the 60s and then survived long enough to send her a message. I glanced at Sherlock anxiously, thinking of what would happen if that had happened to him and I. I don't think I would be able to bear it, in either situation. Little did I know I would have to.

Sally Sparrow ended her story, telling us she had returned the Doctor his magical, bigger-on-the-inside blue box ad tricked the angels into staying frozen forever. She looked up at Sherlock and asked quietly, "Why did you want to know about them? How did you?" Sherlock shifted slightly and said, "You don't appear to be mentally unstable, so I'm going to assume you're telling the truth to the best of your ability. I'm still having a hard time believing in these monsters." He glanced at me as if to hand over attention to me and I told her, "We're working on a case with similar situations to the one at Wester Drumlins. Is there anything you can help us with?"

Sally's eyes widened and she said, "No. I told you my story, that's all I can do for you. I can't...I can't do that again. Once was enough for a lifetime. The angels aren't my problem anymore. I saved the Doctor's blue box and that's it. I wouldn't have been able to do it without him tricking them anyway. They're frozen forever, I told you. Done for. Gone." I hesitated, looking down for a second, and asked, "Any advice to help then?"

"You watched the tape, yeah? Don't blink. Don't even blink. They're fast and if they're after you, I'm sorry. Don't take your eyes off of them. They can transport you back in time and they can probably kill you. They are terrifying, Mr. Watson. I'm sorry, I can't help you. Take the Doctor's advice. But then, take mine as well. Don't get involved with them. They're too dangerous." Then Larry jumped in, "You should probably go now. We've been trying to forget the...things. They almost got me and her. They just have to touch you. And they make these...faces. Bared fangs and claws. Listen to her, Mr. Holmes, just leave them alone." Obviously both of them had been scared by something. If not angels, what?

We left quickly and it was implied that we were not welcome back. We took a cab over to Lestrade's office and on the way, Sherlock looked at me and smirked. "What?" I asked. "This is going to be very dangerous, John. You're sure you still want to do this case?" he inquired. "Of course I do, I've got your back and you've got mine. No way I'm backing out now," I said, smiling widely at him. "Good," he smirked, "We've got a lead and we're going to the house today." My smile faltered slightly. Despite the danger, I was more scared than I normally was.

Sherlock informed Lestrade that we had a definite lead and we were going to investigate. He gave us the address and we set off immediately. The property was a huge old house, much like the one at Wester Drumlins. There was a lot of overgrowth and there appeared to be a huge shed next to it. That is where I suspected anything strange would be, it just screamed suspicious. Sherlock and I both smirked at each other as we hopped the fence and explored. We did stay together, however, instead of split up like we normally did, and that's how I knew he was scared, too. Not much scared Sherlock either. That just made me more nervous, but having him by my side made me less so, which balanced it out.

As I rounded the corner, I nearly jumped with surprise and fright from what I saw. It was one single, solitary angel statue in the center of the backyard, eyes hidden by its hands, exactly like in the picture. Sherlock had frozen behind me, sensing my fright and I tugged on his coat sleeve, holding it tightly.

"Sherlock," I whispered, "Sherlock, it's one of them. It's an angel. A-a weeping angel." His tone of voice jumped to a mixture between curiosity and excitement. "What, where?" he practically shouted. This shot my adrenaline up to a level I am sure is unhealthy. I quickly turned around and pinned him against the brick wall of the mansion. "Shut up. It'll hear us and then it'll come over here to attack us. Shut up, Sherlock, not everything is a game!" My voice had gone an octave higher than normal and I sounded like I had when I had been drugged out in Baskerville. I sounded insane, but I was really scared now that the evidence was in front of me that they were very real. Sherlock almost laughed and I almost punched him. "It's just one, John, right? As long as we keep our eyes on it, we're fine. Weeping Angels indeed…" I widened my eyes. "You're not looking at it," I whispered. "And neither are you," he whispered back in a mocking tone of voice before gently moving me out of his way and going around the corner to investigate. "Sherlock!" I shouted. I went around the corner and saw him standing right in front of the angel. Too close for my taste. It was closer to the corner of the house than before, though. I was sure of it. I approached it and stood behind Sherlock, pulling him back slightly by the scruff of his scarf, not taking my eyes off the angel.

"Sherlock…" I warned. My eye twitched. I still hadn't blinked. "Don't be stupid, John, it's not going to move. It's impossible, I promise you. Look!" He closed his eyes and covered mine and I let out a squeak before he let me go. The angel hadn't budged. I still wasn't convinced. "It's just a statue. Statues can't move or talk or transport people back in time. They must be involved, though. Something to do with these statues and the disappearances." I scowled at my best friend and turned around to go investigate elsewhere. Maybe there would be a gang or something. Clues of some serial murderer. I had to get these angels out of my head.

After a couple hours of looking around, I found nothing, but a couple more angel statues, all ominously in the weeping position...and on the second floor of the mansion. Go figure. I told Sherlock, but he just seemed to think that the family who had owned that house had a strange decorating style. I had to say I agreed with him as the tones of the wallpaper were simply atrocious, but that was besides the point. I still believed in the angels. No one could fake the terror that I saw on Larry's face and the fear in Sally Sparrow's voice when she told us about them. There was something very wrong.

There were no traces of drugs being released as it was in Baskerville, so we ruled out hallucinogens. There was no proof of any kind of murder or kidnapping. The place was spotless. It was all rather odd. We left soon after I showed Sherlock the angels on the second floor and he scoffed at me. I counted five in all as far as I'd found. Five against two. Against normal people, those odds would have been nothing. We would have beaten them easily. But dealing with alien stone angels, not so much.

Listening to my own thoughts, I knew I was going crazy. Sherlock was right. Aliens? No way.

Wrong again, John.

One of the angels was holding a small glass sphere that I had not noticed before. It was roughly the size of a marble, but it was hanging from a short string, as if on a necklace. It had a thin golden band around the middle. Sherlock immediately bent down to examine it as I assumed he would. This was the sixth angel we'd found, in the basement. The other ones we'd found were as follows: two in the shed, one in the backyard, two in the upstairs rooms, and one in the basement. I was still suspicious and Sherlock still insisted that I was being silly. He pulled the string out of the stone cold hand, releasing a dust cloud. We backed away quickly, but my companion quickly ascertained that it was only dust, not poison or drugs.

We left the mansion quickly after that. Sherlock was very eager to examine the sphere more closely and run tests on it. It was filled with a dark blue colored substance of some kind, dotted with spots of gold, like the night sky. He let me see it briefly, but didn't seem to want to part with it for too long. It was new to him.

I noticed as we were leaving some shadows were cast across the lawn that weren't there before. I could have sworn I saw stone hands gripping an upstairs curtain and then eyes peering out. But it could have just been my imagination. I had this problem when I got back from Afghanistan too. I was getting paranoid again.

For the next few weeks, I kept thinking I saw the angels around us. Peering around a corner at a shop. Looking down from a Church on to the street. Little things like that and I was convinced now that I was going crazy. Sally's story had scared me into believing in them, but she hadn't fooled Sherlock. I was starting to think it was a fake story created by Moriarty to go after Sherlock and I again. That was it. Just a ploy, a trick. This answer satisfied me enough that whenever I thought I saw one, and now you know of course, I did, I convinced myself it wasn't real. The only problem? Moriarty was dead.

Little did I know they were following me. Following us. Following the glass sphere Sherlock had taken. They wanted it back very badly. I never found out why and I don't think I ever will.

The third week past our visit to the house, something happened. Sherlock still hadn't figured out exactly what the glass sphere was yet. "It appears to be holding a small...universe of some sort," he explained. "But that's not possible," I replied. "Actually, John," he said, looking up at me, "It is." He then promptly launched into a very scientific explanation that I barely understood. It was supposed to be just a theory, but here it was, right in front of us.

That was the early morning on December the first.

As afternoon approached, Sherlock decided to drag me to the lab. Molly was there when we arrived. She looked bright enough. "Hello Molly," I said cheerfully. She smiled at me and returned my greeting, but per usual she only had eyes for Sherlock. That was annoying, but it didn't affect me seeing as Sherlock didn't appear to return her obvious feelings. "Molly," Sherlock greeted her as warmly as he could manage. She frowned, but quickly recovered. I knew Sherlock owed Molly a lot and she didn't get nearly as much appreciation as she deserved. Poor Molly, I would think. Poor Molly Hooper.

Sherlock put the glass sphere under an X-ray machine and began working on it once again. Molly looked as though she wanted to help him, but Sherlock simply waved her away. She pursed her lips and frowned at me and then him before walking over to where I was standing.

"How's he doing?" she asked me quietly.

"Oh, you know, same old Sherlock," came my now robotic reply.

"No, really, how are you two getting on? I know some things were rocky when he told you about not being dead and all that and I haven't really seen much of you since, so…" she trailed off. She was referring to the time Sherlock faked his death of course. Jumping off of a building, leading me to think I had lost the only thing I had left. He never fully explained why he did it. It was silly of him, I thought, I'm only his best friend, he knows he can tell me anything. Molly didn't seem to know either, she had just helped him cover it up. We didn't talk about it anymore. When I had found out he wasn't really dead, I was relieved of course, but also furious he hadn't told me. He had led me to think for nearly two months that he was gone for good. It was a funky moment when I saw him again. Awkward, tense, and yet very happy too. But we still don't bring it up, ever.

"Um, we're fine. I'm fine, he's fine, it's all fine. Good. Fantastic," was my response. I wasn't so sure. I looked at him sometimes and I just didn't know. Before the incident, we were two in one. Like those sales, two for one, package deal. We were a team, a well oiled machine. And I thought for once that maybe there was more. But afterwards it all changed. He became more withdrawn, much like the Sherlock I had met at the beginning of our acquaintanceship. Something had changed, a small little thing wedged between us that neither of us could face. A discrepancy. An interloper. I was determined to fix that.

Molly looked across at me, scrutinizing me, trying to figure out the meaning behind the words. It was obvious, really. She caught on quickly and coughed awkwardly. "I'm sorry," she squeaked before rushing away to grab something or other. I sighed and looked down at my feet. Among her many talents, she was not the best at being discreet. She talked to Sherlock briefly for about two minutes before rushing off again with the same expression. I looked up at Sherlock when she left and he turned around to glance at me. He hadn't realize my gaze was already there. He did a double take before catching my gaze and slanting his eyebrows up slightly. After a few precious seconds he looked down and away with a disappointed expression on his face. I simply hardened my gaze and just watched him work.

Evening fell over London and Sherlock and I decided to go to dinner. We hadn't done this since the incident, but I was eager to fix our relationship. As we sat down and I ordered some pasta, Sherlock just leaned forward on his hands and looked at me. His piercing dark eyes seemed to look right through me and I told him, "You need to eat something, the last time I saw you eat was breakfast yesterday. Seriously, Sherlock." He was like a food camel.

"Not hungry. Why would I eat if I'm not hungry, John?" came his annoying reply.

"I don't care, you need to eat something. Food is important," came my irked one.

"Is it?" he mumbled. He was scrutinizing me, as if trying to figure out what I was thinking.

"Stop it," I said firmly.

"What?"

"You're doing that thing. Where you look at someone, sometime it's me, and it's like you can read their mind or something. It's weird. Stop." Sherlock looked affronted as he leaned back and put his hands by his sides.

"Sorry."

"What?" I could barely believe my ears. Sherlock rarely apologized.

"I said I'm sorry."

"Um...it's okay. It's just annoying sometimes when you-"

"Not about that, about me."

"How...do you mean?" I asked slowly, "There's nothing wrong with you, Sherlock." I raised my eyebrows in genuine concern. "There's not, is there?" He closed his eyes patiently and put his hands together again in thought.

"No," he answered, "But I've kept you in the dark much too long. About me faking my death. About a lot of things. And it's not fair to you. You're my...you're my best friend." He sounded like he didn't know what to make of our relationship. Best friend was good. That worked. Sherlock had a hard time admitting he had any friends to begin with, so this was definitely an improvement. I might have punched him if he called me a coworker or something.

"Alright," I said, settling down in my seat, looking at him curiously. My pasta came and I slowly started twirling some on my fork. "Talk. Why did you do it? Why did you fake your death?" Sherlock looked reluctant to answer, but resigned that he had to, so he closed his eyes and opened them again, looking thoughtful. I could tell it had something to do with emotions he didn't want to deal with. As if I would laugh at him. I would never do that in something this serious and he should damn well know that.

"I...Moriarty...I can't…" he trailed off. Not much left Sherlock speechless either.

"Go on, Sherlock, I'm listening. I won't laugh or think you're stupid, if that's what you think. You have my highest respect and there's nothing you can do to lose it," I said confidently. It was true. He glanced at me from where he was sitting and gave me a small affectionate smile. It was gone as quickly as it had come, but I caught it.

"Moriarty...threatened to...to kill you if I didn't kill myself." I didn't laugh. He was deadly serious. My face was solemn as I responded, gratitude and disbelief most likely evident in my voice,

"You...you faked your own death to protect me?" I was caught off guard. I knew Sherlock cared about me, and I him, but I never expected him to make such a big sacrifice on my behalf. I had never thought of that. I always knew I'd take a bullet for him, so to speak, but I never thought about if he would for me.

"And Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson," he continued, "He had gunmen trained on all three of you. I was scared, John. Properly scared for the first time in many, many years."

"You wonderful human being," I said slowly, a grin widening on my face, "You shielded all three of us and still survived. And Moriarty died anyway." I could throw out compliments like this now. He told me that he had heard my last words to him in honor of him at his grave. I had some more liberties in that category now.

Sherlock's eyes glittered with self-pride, which I didn't particularly mind. He deserved it. He also gave me a bigger smile, a real one, which I took with great pleasure. I didn't get a lot of smiles out of him sometimes, so I took them where I could get them. As I finished eating, Sherlock ordered a small plate to humor me and we continued the conversation in this manner: he telling me things he hadn't before, or couldn't, and me just feeling more and more confident that I had gotten my best friend back.

We were both smiling like idiots by the time we left. It was roughly seven o'clock when we left. I had minutes left before I disappeared.

Sherlock and I decided a walk home would do us some good and we strolled down the few blocks it would take to get us to 221 Baker Street. One step, two step. Did I know my steps in that time were limited? Did he?

Neither of us suspected any trouble. As we rounded the corner to the street on which our flat was, I noticed it was darker outside than usual. None of the lamplights were working. It was an empty street, too. No one was there. No witnesses as to what else was to occur this night. We both missed the angel that was following us home, hiding in the shadows. Two step, three step, stop. Why did I stop?

I was no more than a few feet past the corner when I suddenly felt a cold grip around my neck, holding me in place. Sherlock kept walking, not hearing my shoes slip against the ground, almost condemning me to breaking my neck. "Sherlock!" I gasped out. I wasn't sure what was going on. If someone was trying to kill me, they were doing a very bad job. They were holding me, but not moving after that. Not constricting my windpipe, simply holding me. Sherlock turned around quickly when I called out to him. His eyes widened to an alarming extent. I felt my mouth go dry. What was scaring him so badly?

I looked down to see the arm holding me back, but it was grey. 'Stone cold,' I thought, 'This arm is stone cold.' I looked back up at Sherlock and tried not to panic. My breathing sped up very quickly and I gasped, "It's one of them, isn't it?" Sherlock advanced towards me very slowly, not taking his eyes off of my captor. "Help me," I whispered desperately. I gripped the stone arm with my hands and tried pulling it off, but it was no use. It was cold, hard stone. My best friend pulled a flashlight out of his pocket without moving his eyes, flashing it on me and the angel so that he could see better. It flickered before going out.

"Don't move," I told him, "I'll look around to see if there's any more." From my limited point of view, I could see a strange shape on the top of the building across the street. Strangely angelic looking. "There's another one on the roof," I told him quietly, moving my eyes back to his.

"They're real," he replied, still looking completely shocked, but his eyes not wavering. "She was right. They were all right. I didn't believe them, but how could I?"

"Yes, alright, but now does not seem to be an appropriate time for self assessment, Sherlock," I snapped, upset from the pressure I was now under. His eyes started to water in the silent stand off and he blinked quickly, just once. I closed my eyes and prepared for the worst, but the angel simply tightened it's grip on my windpipe to the point where I was really suffocating, and held it's other arm outstretched, as if expecting a present.

The message was clear. Give back the glass orb. The other angel hadn't budged. I stared at it to ensure it didn't move and grab Sherlock while I could feel Sherlock's desperate gaze on me. I figured I had about a minute or before I passed out from lack of oxygen.

"Sherlock," I choked out, "I think you have about a minute to do something before I pass out. Do it quickly, if you please." I felt light-headed. My eyes were still fixed on the horrible gaze of the other angel. It was smiling.

He approached me quickly, blinking one eye and then the other and never closing both at the same time. His face was now very close to mine and the angel's. "Let him go," Sherlock said, his voice filled with cold fury, "I have what you want, but it's not with me. You have to let me get it."

"That's not doing any good, she's STONE, remember?" I squeaked. He pulled on the arm, but just as I had tried, it didn't budge.

"I'll give it to you, just let him go. You have to let him go," he pleaded with the stone, his voice an octave higher. It didn't move. He didn't risk taking his eyes off of it.

"Sherlock…" I squeaked out again, my voice and air fading rapidly.

"I'm trying, John, I don't know what to do!" he wailed, desperate to save me but completely unable to. I took my eyes off of the other angel, seeing it as unimportant right now, and looked at Sherlock. As I glanced at it again, I saw the angel had moved, but it didn't seem to care what we were doing. It was the first angel's back up. Holding Sherlock wouldn't do them any good.

"No, you listen to me right now. Whatever happens, I trust you. I know if you take your eyes off of it, it'll probably kill me, but we don't have much time," I gasped in between desperate breaths. I knew I had few precious seconds before my consciousness faded away. My face was probably red, turning blue.

"I won't let it take you, John, I promise," he said, his voice heavy with emotion. It was an unusual tone of voice for Sherlock, but then, there had been stranger things today.

"It won't matter if you can't get it off of me. I'll die anyway. We have to try to see if it will let go of me. I want you to stop looking at it." His mouth was slightly ajar, his eyes desperately seeking relief. I knew he wanted to, but he couldn't.

"I can't just let you die," he whispered, his voice shaking, "I know we have to try."

"Look at me, Sherlock," I said back. I could feel my head pounding, my consciousness slipping away already. In a last desperate attempt to say something, anything, I choked out, "I don't want to go! I l-" Sherlock's gaze slipped to mine and I will never forget the emotions I saw in them. It will be forever imprinted in my mind. My voice caught and I didn't finish my sentence as everything faded to black.

When I awoke, I found myself on the same street I left, but in broad daylight. I jumped up and immediately shouted, "Sherlock!" My voice was very raspy, and as I felt my throat, I found bruises there from the angel's attack. A small boy ran up to me and looked very curious, his eyes wide.

"Hey mister, are you all right?" I saw his friends in the distance, looking at me with bewilderment. I rubbed the back of my head and said, "Um, yeah. Thanks." He nodded with a grin on his face and ran back to his friends. That was weird. I walked up to 221B and knocked on the door. "Sherlock, let me in," I demanded. When no one answered, I peered in the window. "Mrs. Hudson? Sherlock?" A young woman with black hair answered the door and asked, "And who are you then?"

"I'm John Watson, I live here." She gave me a weird look and said, "No one lives here but me and the kids, mate." She peered into my eyes. "You sober?" I scoffed, "Of course I am!" She nodded as if to humor me and then closed the door in my face. "Thanks for nothing," I mumbled before looking down at my feet. There lie a newspaper, with the date all wrong. I picked it up and it said the date was December the first, 1985. That couldn't be right. I took it and walked towards the newspaper stand I knew so well. It wasn't there. What stood there instead was a shop I hadn't seen since I was a kid.

"Wait a second," I told myself. "I stepped back to the corner. It looked the same. It was a comic book shop, my favorite as a kid. "No way," I said aloud. I walked into the store. Sure enough, December the first, 1985 was on the calendar on the wall. So the Doctor and Sally had told the truth. The angels really could send you back in time. My thoughts immediately jumped to Sherlock. He had no idea where I was. Or when I was, rather. It was the Billy Shipton problem. I would have to live it out until we met again. But I would be older. Much older.

I walked out slowly, taking in the world around me. Nineteen eighty five. I was still just a kid, so how could I be here? 'The angels,' I knew, 'It was always the angels.' I was safe, for now, but with a panicked thought, I knew Sherlock was still in danger. And I was unable to help him, I didn't have his back. But there was nothing I could do. I would have to help him from where I was. I would have to deliver a message to young Sherlock.

Sherlock was about mid-30s back home; I'm pretty sure he celebrated his 36th birthday a couple months ago. I was a couple years older myself. Wow, he was young. He would be about eight or nine now. I was...fourteen? Yes. That sounds right. I knew where I used to live with my mom and my sister, Harriet. We had some fun times. Maybe I would check up on us now and again. But I knew I would definitely check up on my companion before he knew me. That's weird to say.

I know him, but he doesn't know me yet. We go way back, but not this far back. Oh dear, I'm cracking up now.

I need to think straight. I found a direct0ry with both Holmes and Watson. I smiled when I saw both names. The Holmes' lived on Montague Street. I copied down the address and telephone number on the inside of my arm to remember it and quickly pulled the sleeve of my jumper up. I knew I would need it when I came up with a plan. I decided to go scope out the address anyway so I knew how to find it the next time. I was also very curious. I could never imagine my friend as a small child, it just didn't happen. It didn't work for me.

It was a very pretty street, but it looked very old and a bit run down. It was a sad little street. As I rounded the corner, the empty street appeared to be occupied by a few young children. I caught sight of wavy black hair on the back of one child's head and smiled to myself. But he mustn't see me. He mustn't know I was here. I stayed in the shadows. I was a few good yards away, leaning against the gate. The children paid no attention to me.

"Come on, Mycroft, you have to be the bad pirate! I can't play pirates with you if you won't play!" protested the small child. He looked around at the other kids who didn't seem very eager to join in. He slouched his shoulders and looked very disappointed. "Come on Mycroft, come play pirates with me!" the boy shouted again. I was surprised to see Mycroft hanging around. He was a lanky teenager, another I would not have expected to see young, with his dark hair hanging over his face and his nose in a book. He heaved a great sigh, a shadow of his older self and said, "I don't want to play, Sherlock, I'm busy." He had an impatient tone to him. I guessed he was only there to keep an eye on his younger brother.

Little Sherlock pulled one of the other little boys in the middle of the street with him. "Arghh!" he said aggressively, "Avast ye, villian! You won't be getting me gold today!" I almost laughed. This was so different from the Sherlock I knew. The other boy had wild curly blond hair. He cracked Sherlock a wide smile and joined in, "Arghh, but can you get past me devil dog?" He laughed and pulled another boy to join in. The boy looked very reluctant. The blond boy pushed him towards Sherlock and said, "Sic 'em, Mickey!" The boy, Mickey, pulled his arm away and grumbled something I didn't catch and walked away, back home I assumed.

A small group of slightly older looking boys walked up the sidewalk. The two boys were still playing, ignorant of the interlopers. I frowned; something wasn't right here. Mycroft obviously wasn't paying attention and had ventured farther away from his brother and his friend. The boys approached and the little blond boy looked up and immediately looked terrified. He whimpered before giving Sherlock an apologetic glance and running away in the opposite direction. The biggest looking one let out a cynical laugh. They couldn't have been older than ten or eleven, but looked sinister all the same. I shifted uncomfortably. I knew bullies when I saw them, but I couldn't intervene, could I?

Sherlock yelled out, "Sammy, come back!" but his friend didn't stop and look back. Sherlock turned and looked at the boys defiantly. He had a lot of spirit and always would. "Aw, hello little baby! You pwaying piwates today?" one boy mocked. I raised my eyebrows in concern. He was small for his age, and I knew he would grow, but it wasn't doing him any good at the moment. Sherlock was silent. Mycroft was clueless.

"Answer him!" one boy shouted before punching him hard in the arm. He gasped and held his arm, but looked like he was trying to be strong. My heart went out to him. The only thing holding me back from intervening now was fear of changing the future. There was no one around, no one I could call out to for help, and I couldn't just leave him. "Leave me alone!" squeaked Sherlock. I glanced at his brother in disbelief. Mycroft still was unseeing, still reading his book. What was he doing? Was he deaf? I mean, obviously not, but he was definitely acting it. Was he acting? Was he purposely ignoring his brother's cries?

"And what if I don't want to?" asked one of the boys, leaning in so he was close to the child's face. Sherlock looked really upset and he was so wound up that he looked as though he was about to spring. And that he did. He launched himself on to the boy closest to him and knocked him over, sitting on top of him and weakly hitting him in the face. The other three boys grabbed him and dragged him off of their friend and held him back. The boy's lip was split and he was holding his jaw. Maybe those hits weren't so weak after all.

"Freak," he spat at Sherlock. That word made me tense immediately. I had heard most insults people had in them to throw at him, but I absolutely abhorred them calling him a freak. I saw it as they were trying to make him less human and that was unforgivable. Asshole, jackass, bitch, bastard, prat, nuisance, twat, dick, jerk… I could see where they're coming from sometimes. But never, ever was 'freak' acceptable to label Sherlock. I advanced towards them almost immediately, forgetting myself and the thought that I would probably be changing history or something.

But then I remembered something Mycroft said to me a long, long time ago. He told me that his brother had wanted to be a pirate but he had also told me that it was funny, that there was a man who saved Sherlock from sustaining serious injuries due to bullying and that he looked an awful lot like me. I hadn't thought anything of it. There were look-a-likes in our lives sometimes. Coincidences just happened. But not anymore. I no longer believed in coincidences, not after walking with Sherlock Holmes. It was me. I saved him. But when? What if I did it at the wrong moment?

In the few seconds it took me to try and decide, two boys had dragged the tiny boy to the ground and punched him square in the face, barely missing his nose. I heard him cry out in pain. Mycroft was deaf to the whole thing. I glanced back and forth from brother to bullies and decided the time was right. I couldn't leave him like this. I walked quickly towards the boys and yelled out, "Hey!" but they didn't seem to hear me. They were all hooting and hollering atrocities at the victim. This was getting way out of hand. The bullies were all taking turns punching him, in the stomach, in the face, in the chest. It was relentless, merciless, and full of spite and hate. What on earth could have happened to make them take out all their tension on my tiny friend? As I finally reached them, they lifted him a bit off the ground by his hair and the picture was disturbingly similar to Sherlock's appearance after he had fallen off of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. I shivered involuntarily as I heard his weak cries of pain.

"Get away from him!" I roared, shaking with fury. They dropped him instantly, surprised by my appearance. He made a small 'oof!' when he hit the ground and closed his eyes. He probably had a concussion, minor or major I could not tell. Only nine years old. He looked so small. I shoved the bullies away hard and asked them furiously what they thought they were doing. I picked up the small boy in my arms and by this time Mycroft had realized what was going on finally and hurried over. One boy tried to put up a poor defense: "He was attacking Henry here, sir! We was only protecting Henry!" I glared at the one who had spoken, who immediately shrunk away. I then glanced at the one they were referring to and saw it was the one who Sherlock had jumped on. In a cold voice I said, "Go home. Now. You're lucky I don't know who you are or I would tell all of your parents and you'd get proper punishment." What else was I supposed to do?

"Oh my god!…" Mycroft yelped when he saw his younger brother. He was still unconscious. "I am so sorry about all this...what happened? I didn't see what was going on, I-" I glared at him too and replied coldly,

"You let him get hurt because you were too absorbed in your stupid book, Mycroft Holmes." I noticed my slip-up almost immediately. The boy narrowed his eyes at me and asked, "How do you know who I am?" I was saved by his book. The bookmark had a small tab hanging on it that read 'Mycroft Holmes'. "Bookmark," I said quickly before asking, "Where's the nearest hospital?" I was still holding Sherlock in my arms. He looked small and broken and it nearly broke me.

"I can take him, thank you so much for your help, I-" Mycroft started. "You were careless enough to let him get this way in the first place; you will come with me to the hospital. Now tell me where one is!" I spit back at him. I was trying very hard to hold it together and not show any sign that I knew the boy I was holding so carefully. Mycroft pursed his lips, putting his book under his arm and led me to a hospital a couple of blocks away. It wasn't St. Bartholomew's. While I knew where it was, I wasn't ready to go back there yet. It would be strange, surreal to see another place I knew in my time that also held so much importance to me. I couldn't do it.

As we checked him in, I had Mycroft contact a parent, which turned out to be his mother. She was confused, but grateful for my help and scared for her son. He wasn't going to have any permanent damage of course, besides in self-esteem. Just needed a couple of weeks to heal up. He never awoke while I was there, thus only Mycroft would remember me. I had to remember to give him an alias. I told him my name was Hamish, my middle name. I didn't tell him my last.

After that, time seemed to blur. Weeks and months and finally years passed. I got older and avoided familiar faces as best I could. I would often come back to Montague Street and catch glimpses of Sherlock and Mycroft. I watched them grow up. I started to see Lestrade bouncing around as a Scotland Yard man. I would be in Afghanistan by now. I counted the years as best as I could. I was getting old. Not a moment passed in which I wasn't missing my old life with Sherlock.

On occasion I chose specific points I knew my younger self and his companion would show up. The corner where Sherlock ran after the serial killer cabbie. A few floors above the pool where we engaged in a stand off with Moriarty, keeping well out of sight. Near Irene Adler's flat the day we would visit her. Every single encounter broke my heart. It was like living everything over again, but on the outside. I seldom talked to anyone except out of necessity. Once I glimpsed Moriarty, on the day he would break into the Crown Jewels exhibit, the Bank of England, and Pentoville Prison all at the same time. My jaw worked as I saw him enter the exhibit, but there was nothing I could do. I often checked my iPhone, out of it's time now for twenty some odd years and scroll through messages from Sherlock, but knowing I couldn't contact him until I had caught up. I couldn't go to St. Bartholomew's the day he died, or I thought he did. It was painful even now. I hid away that day, hiding from everything, and rejecting all the media trashing Sherlock. I was hiding from them all now.

I was almost caught up with my own time. I was nearly seventy years old.

It was like I was living life on the wrong side of the looking glass. I saw and knew everything that was happening and was going to happen up until almost the end of 2013, but I could say nothing, do nothing. I was completely and utterly alone and it broke my heart. I would never grow old with Sherlock. We would never ever be the same again. I was going to die soon, for good this time. I fought for life with everything I had. I'm not that old yet, I figured, I've still got another ten years in me. We'll see.

So I am writing this for you, Sherlock. This is as far as I'm going to assume is safe to write. I may die soon, so I figure now is the best time to stop writing. I am nearly caught up, give or take a week. I'm so excited to give this to you, so you'll know what happened while I was missing you. I will make preparations to deliver this to 221B the day after I disappear. Then I can finally talk to you again. I've waited almost thirty years to see you again. I miss you.

I'll see you in a bit.

Love from John

I put my hands underneath my chin thoughtfully. "Done?" John asked me. I could barely look at him. It was so strange. We sat together in 221B as we always had, but now he was older. Much older. Seventy years old to be exact. Not that age matters to me in terms of friendship, but he wasn't supposed to be this way. It was wrong. The narrative I just finished reading, while John sat just across from me for however long it took, explained what had happened when he disappeared last night. Last night for me, thirty years ago for him. I look up at him finally and ask, "So what now?"

John, I noticed with affection, still wore his jumpers. Now he walked around with a cane, though. I was not used to it nor his new appearance. I had seen the cane before when I first met him. That was so long ago. Now his beard was grown out to a stubble and his hair was multiple shades of grey as opposed to the sandy brown I had learned to love. But he was the same person, I had to remind myself, he was still my John. His breathing came to a slight wheeze every time he breathed in and he sounded very tired. All the evidence of his physical health was telling me that he didn't have much longer to live.

And it was breaking my heart.

I'm not immune to strong emotion in any way, as I imagine some would think. I only put up a stronger shield to them than most others. But right then I had a heavy feeling in my heart that I had not felt for a long time. Maybe not ever. I wasn't not sure. "Well," my best friend started to say, "I imagine we continue as we were before until I...well, you know." I did know, but I also knew that pushing him to any physical limit could break him for good. He could continue working with me, at least not out in the field. And I don't know if I had the heart to continue without him. I gave him a small encouraging smile, "Of course we will. Lestrade should have one for us by this very afternoon." I was obviously humoring him and I'm pretty sure he knew it.

Lestrade did, in fact, come up with a case for us this afternoon. He came into the flat and luckily John was looking for something in his bedroom when he arrived. That could have raised a lot of awkward questions I really didn't want to deal with. I didn't need to think about it anymore than was necessary. He handed me a file on a double homicide and just to get him out quickly, I told him I'd take the case. He asked about the secret case. I said nothing. He knew from my look that I wasn't in the mood to discuss it and he left quickly. John came out finally and asked, "Was that Lestrade?" I nodded at him and he pursed his lips. He knew why he couldn't let Lestrade see him, but that didn't mean he had to like it. Then a curious look came over his old face. I nearly smiled, the face was so familiar.

"What happened after I-ah-disappeared?" he asked me quietly, carefully, as if tiptoeing around a sleeping dragon. My face darkened. It was not pleasant for me to recall it and I wasn't particularly in the mood to relay it to him at the moment. "Later," I said, waving him off. He frowned at me. When I looked into his eyes, I saw wisdom and intelligence beyond those in the eyes of his previous self. 'God help me,' I thought. I wasn't really sure how to treat him now. Was he my elder? Do I treat him the way I always have? Now I thought of it, I didn't treat older people any better than I treated younger unless they gave me a reason to. This brightened my spirits slightly.

I tried to act normally, but I ended up being as far from normal as I possibly could. At least, I thought so. John walked to the kitchen out of my view while I stood, solitary, staring out the window of 221B. "Sherlock!" he yelled from the other room. Many things had changed, but he still had those strong lungs. That was good. I turned around quickly and rushed to his side. "What is it? What's wrong?" He was bent over in an awkward position and informed me, "I'm stuck." I realized how tightly wound up I was and there was nothing else to do. I started laughing, quietly at first and I heard John join in soon after me, at the ridiculousness of the whole situation. He still sounded like he was wheezing.

After a few minutes, we calmed down and he said, "No, but seriously though, I can't stand up." I raised my eyebrows in concern and carefully placed one hand on his back and held his hand with the other one as I pulled him back up. I heard his back crack and I sighed. He put a hand on his back, releasing my hand. "Thanks," he smiled at me. His voice was coarse and slower than it was before. His smile nearly broke me again. I hated being fragile, my emotional state based on one man. I looked up at him, snapping myself out of my thoughts again and shot out my arm, catching hold of his sleeve. I pulled him close to me and hugged him tightly, finally releasing all of the tension yesterday caused for me. I was worried sick and I hated to admit it. He hugged me back tightly and I held on as if my life depended on it. He was my rock, and although he had only been gone for a night from my point of view, it felt like thirty years to me too. I had thought he was dead.

When I finally released him, he looked at me in surprise and asked, "What was that for?" I looked hard at him. "Do you really need me to answer that?" He looked down and shifted slightly before looking back up at me, saying,

"No, I don't." I nodded.

"Good. Moving on," I replied quickly. I turned away and walked back into the sitting room.

"Sherlock…" I heard him call tentatively. I flopped down in one of the chairs.

"What?" I called back impatiently. He entered the room.

"It's good to see you again," John told me. I smiled at him again, although mostly just to humor him.

"You too, John," I indulged him. It was true, but I wasn't one for sentiment as most people are aware.

The first case we started to solve together again, a few weeks later, it came to light that I was required to go out into the field to chase down a criminal. John naturally stood up to come with me, and I was disheartened slightly. I held out a hand.

"You're not going."

"I'm what?"

"Not. Going. Didn't you hear me?"

"Yes, but Sherlock, we always-" I closed my eyes slightly impatiently, but mostly just out of fear that my weakness here was vulnerable. But I was very decisive in this matter. He wasn't coming because if he got hurt or worse, I would never forgive myself. And that's something I had a taste of when he disappeared and I couldn't deal with that again.

"I know what we always used to do," I said, still holding up my hand, "And we can't do that anymore. I am...I'm really sorry, John, but you can't. Please understand. I'll be alright, I managed without you before." John looked very hurt, but it was for his own good. I knew the last sentence was especially not okay, but I had to. I had to keep him safe. He looked as though he was about to say something, but then sat down dejectedly. He waved me off.

"Fine. Go on then," I nodded, satisfied he understood. Then he added, "I'm just too old to be useful to you anymore." I sighed, his words hitting me hard and stinging me.

"You're not-" I turned around to defend myself, but he was already gone. He had retreated to the bedroom, it looked like. "I'm so sorry this happened, John," I whispered under my breath. Then I headed downstairs, pulling my coat on, and left the flat.

The chase had not gone as well as I thought. He had a companion I didn't foresee and I barely escaped with my life. If John was there, he would've warned me. We would have caught the guy. It was my fault he couldn't help me that way anymore. I walked back to 221B with bad stabbing wounds to my shoulder and back as far as I'm aware. Hopefully they wouldn't serve as much of an issue long term.

When I limped into the flat, I was shaking violently, holding my shoulder. I collapsed on the couch and weakly called out, "John...John, I'm back…" He limped in on his cane and his eyes widened when he saw me lying awkwardly on the couch He rushed over to me. "Sherlock, what happened?"

"Unforeseen…complications. There's one on my shoulder and my lower back I think…" I said slowly and quietly. I could tell he was struggling to hear me, but got the general message. He rolled me on to my back and saw the two wounds. He took a sharp breath in and said, "Alright, you're going to be okay, I can fix this, this is easy." I could hear the doubt in his voice, but I wasn't concerned. "I trust you," I told him. I was feeling a little light-headed and figured I was probably bleeding a lot. John muttered under his breath, "Paper towels, we'll need some water, I can do this. I'm okay, we're okay…". I chucked slightly under my own breath at his concern. I flinched slightly when he pressed the paper towels to the injured areas. "Don't move," he demanded. I simply closed my eyes and fought passing out.

A few minutes later, he had stopped the bleeding and looked for the first aid kit, which we kept below the sink. He sat me up and pulled my shirt off and wrapped bandages around my lower torso and my shoulder. He then carefully pulled my shirt back on and guided me to the bedroom. "Thank you, John," I said slowly, pulling the covers over myself. I slept soundly for the whole night and awoke late in the morning.

The next few days, John started having breathing problems. He didn't say anything, but sometimes I looked over at him and he looked like a dying fish. The third time I caught it, I flicked my eyes downwards before getting up and putting my hand on his shoulder, turning him towards me. "John, what's wrong with your chest?" He looked at me strangely. "Nothing, I'm fine, Sherlock." I immediately pressed my ear to his chest and heard him wheezing worse than ever. "Sherlock, what are you-" I raised my hand up and put it against his mouth to silence him. He swatted my hand away. I took him by the wrist and looked deep into his eyes, saying, "I'm taking you, to the hospital." He was obviously extremely embarrassed by my noticing his ailments. "No, I don't want-"

"I don't care what you want, you're going now," I said loudly to him, walking away to retrieve my coat. I pulled it on and grabbed him by the arm, dragging him outside. John rubbed his chest when he thought I couldn't see him, taking deeper breaths than should have been necessary. I looked down sadly in the cab on the way there, trying not to let him see. He wheezed the whole way there and I worried terribly. When John gasped loudly, I looked over quickly. "What's wrong?" He looked at me, terrified. "There was an angel outside. Sherlock, are they still following us?" My expression hardened when I replied, "No. They won't be bothering us anymore. I suppose they're merely curious as to what happened to you at this point." He nodded and swallowed hard, looking back out the window. I reached over and took his shaking hand in mine, putting one hand under and one hand over his. He smiled nervously at me.

When I checked him in to the hospital, they gave him a quick check to see if there was really a problem. The doctor came out to me and told me, "He'll be okay for now, there is no impending danger, but you were right to bring him in." I immediately changed my expression to one of great concern. "What's wrong?" I asked him. The doctor lowered his glasses to look at me and said, "Old age." I hardened my expression again and sat down in a chair outside his room, contemplating the events that had so recently transpired. I rested my hands against each other in front of my face and breathed slowly in and out, eyes closed. Then I straightened up, completely aware my expression was cold and hard. I was slowly shutting it out again.

I walked outside the hospital and caught sight of two angels. They were waiting for me, for something. "What do you want now? Have you seen what you've done to him? To me? You've ruined my life!" I shouted at them furiously. No one was around to hear me but them. I heard their voice in my head, loud and overpowering. "You know what we are here for and you know why we have waited. Give us our universe, Sherlock Holmes." I simply stared at them and walked backwards into the hospital silently. They would never have, could never have it. What else could they do now? I was losing the one thing that mattered to me.

John's condition worsened quickly over the course of the next two weeks and I was by his side for most of our waking hours. The worst part was the waiting. I was told that his respiratory system was very weak and soon he would have a hard time breathing. By the third week, he had an oxygen mask over his face that was pumping it into him because he was now to weak to breathe by himself. One particular day, he asked me one last time,

"What happened after I disappeared, Sherlock?" I looked down and said, "Ah, it's quite a story, John. I think you'll like it." He laughed a little at that and said, "I think I have to, don't I?" I began telling him with as bright a tone as I could manage.

"I was surprised when you simply disappeared. Dematerialized, more like. The angels advanced towards me until they heard a whooshing sound. That seemed to scare them greatly. A blue police box materialized on the corner and a man stepped out."

"The Doctor?" John asked, his eyes widening like a child being told a bedtime story. In a sense, that was the situation exactly. I nodded and smiled weakly, looking down and back up, biting my lip.

"He was different from the one on the tape, though. He was more child-like. He had a boyish face and long brown hair that flipped over his face. And his jaw was more square and his face was longer. He looked very desolate, rather like myself." I couldn't talk to anyone else this way. Only John. "He walked out with such confidence in himself and yet I saw such great sadness in his eyes. A young woman with long brown hair came out after him and looked too excited. 'What are we doing here, Doctor?' she inquired. 'Sorry, Clara, pit stop. The TARDIS picked up a dangerous signal of energy,' he replied. I sensed great intelligence and wisdom in him. I staggered back and he caught sight of me. The angels had disappeared." I had recalled it all rather well, I thought. I continued without pause, "He approached me quickly and waved some kind of small flashlight in my face. It buzzed in a peculiar way and he informed me it was called a sonic screwdriver. After looking at it later briefly, I saw that it could possibly do many things, but never could it be used as an actual screwdriver." I thought this was funny. I half-smiled. "Clara and the Doctor, oh John you should have seen them. They were quite the pair. Dashing this way and that, reminding me so much of you and I. I finally spoke and asked him if he was here because of the angels. He froze very still and turned to me. I felt a chill over my bones as if his own hatred for the creatures was resonating on to me. There were many powerful forces at work that night. Then he asked me very, very quietly, 'What angels?' I tried to collect myself as I told him that it was the Weeping Angels. The stone statues that move and can transport you back in time with one touch. He glared, but it was not at me. His eyes had a broken look to them when I first mentioned them and he had a determined look on his face. 'I'm sorry, Clara,' he said, 'This will have to be a bit longer than a pit stop.' She simply smiled wider and said something excitedly about her first real adventure. He gave her a small smile, but I could tell it wasn't a happy one. Then he approached me again and asked where the angels were. I told him the address and requested I come with him. He told me no. I told him about you. That they took you and I don't know what had happened to you. I also told him I was a consulting detective. Then he squinted his eyes at me and asked my name. Sherlock Holmes was my reply. His eyes widened in recognition and he said, 'Quite right, you need to come with me. Now.' He looked a bit disoriented after that and kept glancing at me like he knew a secret about me that I didn't know. I walked into his police box, and you'll never guess what I saw, John." His eyes widened again as he listened and I told him quietly, "It was bigger on the inside with so many trinkets and gadgets I'd kill for. He called it his TARDIS, which stands for Time and Relative Dimension in Space. I told him he was rubbish. He told me it was a time machine. He took us to the address where the angels lived, sure enough. My mind was never so opened as it was that night, John, there are so many things I believe now and so many more possibilities that I never dreamed of, all because of the Doctor!" Even I couldn't suppress the happy glint that came over my face. We both looked like excited children now. The Doctor had changed my outlook on life. But the one thing he couldn't do was save the only thing I had ever loved so much.

As I continued my narrative, I could tell John was getting tired. I asked him o multiple occasions whether he wanted me to stop and continue the story tomorrow. He insisted that I continue, so I did. When I came to the end, I told him, "So the Doctor and I struck a deal with the angels. We were at a stalemate, really. I don't see why we couldn't have just smashed them to pieces, but I trusted that he knew what he was doing. He knew about the universe sphere, mind you, he knew exactly what they wanted. First he scolded them for sending you back in time and told them how disgusted he was with them, and you know what good that would do for them. He told me to give him the sphere, which I had recovered from the lab beforehand. I did, but hesitantly. He informed me that there was worlds of technology that had gone into making the artifact that I wouldn't be able to figure out and even if I did, it would cause some sort of universal paradox for the future. Rather like if you had shown an Apple employee of 1985 your iPhone 4S. Bad things would happen, apparently. So I handed it over in the end, but without the knowledge of the enemy. He then told them the risks that having the glass sphere would have, but they didn't care. Their horrible voices penetrated my head, apparently after having stolen the voices of the dead, and told me horrible things, John, horrible lies, trying to turn me against that man. I almost listened too." I fell silent for a minute as the excited grin fell from my face and I looked down sadly. John looked solemn. "What did they say?" he voiced.

"I'm not going to tell you, at least not right now. The time's not right," I responded slowly. Then I looked up and continued, "Then the Doctor made them one final deal, which they agreed with. He told them that he had secured a telepathy link with me, which I only half-agreed to, but he said it was the only thing that would work to save you from… well I'll explain that separately in a minute. They would feel my thoughts and feelings whenever they were at a strong point and be unable to act on their own malicious intentions as long as they were sustained. He told me that the angels planned on keeping you in a never-ending loop of paradoxes, so they could keep feeding on your energy forever. They are now unable to attack you or I because my feelings so far have been wildly out of control since you returned, and some not in ways I'd care to admit. They are as unable to attack us as I would be." I gave him a small smile and he nodded thoughtfully at me. "The Doctor then explained to me that he would return once you...later to defeat them once and for all and that he had to get some advice from a friend on how to defeat them once and for all. He tricked them cleverly once, but you know how tricks go; once you use one, you can't really use it again. He apologized profusely and told me he would return as soon as he could to try and save...well, anyway. Clara was better about it. She seemed more sympathetic." I stopped finally and looked down at my feet, unable to look at John. "I'm so sorry about all this," I murmured. "It's all my fault. If I'd been more careful and accepted the improbable, you wouldn't be this way." He chuckled as if amused.

"Old, you mean? I don't mind being old, Sherlock." He reached or my hand, and I gave it to him, holding on to him tightly. He added in a whisper, "It's just that I'm not old with you." I looked up at him in slight surprise. His eyes sparkled as he smirked at me the way he used to. I smirked back at him, feeling slow tears rise to my eyes. I immediately looked down so he couldn't see and swallowed hard. This was a heart-wrenching thing to watch him go through. I stayed with him all night, just holding his hand and drifting in and out of sleep as he slept heavily.

In the morning, I woke up with a cramp in several parts of my body from sleeping in the hard wooden chair. I had resisted all attempts for nurses to take me away until they finally got so fed up, they left me alone. I watched for him to wake up and when he did, he smiled when he saw I was still there. I saw fright in his eyes and I knew the end was coming for him soon. He knew it, too. "Stay with me," he murmured when various attendants came in and out. I promised I would stay as long as it took. John made no indication that he wanted me to send for anyone to say last goodbyes to. He told me to make up some reason why he had gone, and that I would think of something. I would. But not now. I wasn't thinking about it now. I was only thinking about the present moments and the last moments I would have with him.

Throughout the day, we made various jokes with each other about certain things we always used to talk about or do. He teased me about my obsession with cigarette ash. I teased him about his blog. We both laughed about the time I went to Buckingham Palace with nothing but a bed sheet and the fact that I stole an ashtray. He said not to worry about the will, he had made the proper arrangements ages ago. We moved on quickly from that topic and back to the lightheartedness. Towards late afternoon, his breathing started getting much heavier and more labored. The fear in his eyes reappeared. I called for a doctor and they said his body was shutting down. There was nothing they could do and John told me specifically not to try and resuscitate him should he go under. I respected that.

In that last hour, I held his hand the whole time. I sat next to his hospital bed, scooting my chair as close as it would go. I studied his face, his wrinkled yet so familiar features. He hadn't changed at all to me; I realized that now. His eyelids fluttered and I panicked momentarily.

"Not yet, John!" I cried out. He opened his eyes again and said with a small smile, "I'm not ready just yet, old friend. Sorry for scaring you." I realized we probably didn't have much time. I tried to make the best of it.

"I've disappointed you, John. I can't stop this. I can't prevent old age," I murmured. John looked scandalized. As furiously as he could manage he retorted,

"Sherlock Holmes, you have never disappointed me, and you never will!" I broke. The lump in my throat won the battle and slow tears began rolling down my face.

"I don't want you to go. This is my fault." John pointed a frail finger at me and told me firmly, "If you blame yourself one more time, I'll drop dead right here, right now." Still had a sense of humor. That was good. I laughed bitterly and silently continued reprimanding myself. '

"This isn't your fault, Sherlock, this is the Weeping Angels. They did this to me, not you. Stop it now." His voice sounded ever so strained now.

"I'm sorry, John," I told him, "I love you." That was perhaps the bravest thing I have ever done. His expression melted and he told me ever so softly, "I love you, too. I always have and I always will." 'Always will' entails about two more minutes, I thought very cynically. This was killing me. "I know what you're thinking, Sherlock," he said, looking amused, "But I will always be with you. In here." I looked down as he reached out and touched my chest where my heart was located. Then he leaned back and looked at the ceiling.

"Will you miss me?" he asked suddenly. My gaze snapped to his and I fixed my blue eyes on his mysterious grey-blue ones and hesitated to answer. Of course I would. How was I to say that to him? In the second it took me to articulate my answer, starting with, "Of co-", he closed his eyes and gasped once, twice, and then fell silent. His eyes were still shut and his breathing slowed to a halt. "John?..." I asked quietly. I knew it was too late, but I couldn't accept the evidence in front of me. "John? John! John, wake up, please!" I pleaded with him. He had left before I could say goodbye. He didn't know I would miss him. My voice cracked and my tears flowed more freely now. He was gone. My fault. All my fault.

I stayed with him for as long as I could. The doctors and the nurses rushed in and I couldn't let them just take him away, like another faceless body. Another faceless old man. But he wasn't. Not to me. As they took him, I stood frozen, unbelieving. I didn't even get to say goodbye.

I didn't tell anyone. Not yet. The angels completely steered clear immediately after it happened. They felt my hatred of them as well as the heavy guilt and sadness in my own heart. The telepathic link made them feel as I did and as I had said before, they were just as capable of attacking anyone I loved as I was. In other words, not able to at all. I hid away in 221B, not talking to anyone, just staring out the window and playing my violin. Now I knew how John had felt when I faked my death and the thought just made me feel more guilty. Except I didn't have any hope. There was no chance of his return. I had already asked the only person who could make that possible, while I was in his blue box time machine.

I asked if we could find him and save him and he told me no. I asked him why not. He told me that John was a fixed point in time and there would be some sort of universal paradox if we saved him from the past. He also told me I would die. I told him I would always die to save John, but I also asked why I would. The Doctor told me that John has saved my life more times than I know, and he left it at that. I was silenced after that, torn up inside that there was nothing I could do to save John from his terrible fate. I still blamed myself.

I finally decided to tell people who I knew would be missing John. I told Sarah and John's sister first. They were both devastated of course. I told them that had died saving me. He had died honorably. It was true, he had saved me, even if that wasn't technically what had happened in terms of his death. I didn't expand upon it and they seemed to understand. I told Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and Molly next. Molly and Mrs. Hudson cried, but Lestrade just looked shell-shocked. I didn't know much about John's parents. I recall going to a funeral for John's father and he never talked about his mother much at all. I had no way of contacting her even if she was still around. They all apologized profusely for me and I kept up the emotional wall I always wore as protection. My poker face. My shield. I knew the ones who knew me well could see past it and accepted my outside response to it.

I owned most of his things now according to his will. 'What's mine has always been yours anyway.' he had written cynically, but still in good humor. When I unlocked his phone, I smiled when I saw it opened to the conversation of texts we'd sent back and forth. Or rather, I'd badgered him with texts and he'd responded by action rather than replying.

The time came when I decided I had been mourning for a sufficient amount of time. Truth be told, I would never get over it, but I could act like I have. That's what people do, isn't it? Move on? Forgive and forget? I went back to work as a consulting detective and at first, I would often turn around and ask, "John, pass me a pen?" before realizing he wasn't there. I really should have gotten another flatmate to help me out, but it wouldn't be the same. I could never love or even like them. They wouldn't be John. They would be a replacement and I would despise them for it. It wouldn't be fair to me or to them. So I didn't. I was alone.

But then, was I really? I thought I heard John or saw him out of the corner of my eye sometimes, even now. He was right in saying he was still with me. He would always be with me.

As for the Weeping Angels, the damned creatures, the Doctor returned as he had promised. He saw from the pain in my eyes that John was gone and he apologized once, making a sour face before walking in another direction. Clara put her hand on my shoulder and told me she was so sorry. I told her I was fine and to go away. She told me to get over myself and admit I was sad, dammit. That made me smirk for the first time since the last day with my best friend. We finally got rid of them, by tricking them to fall into a crack in the universe, into the Void, he called it. The Void. Empty space where nothing can exist. Hell, basically. It was all a blur, really, I had simply done as I was told to get rid of them for good.

When the Doctor took me home, I asked him one more time if I could at least see him again. He put his hands in his pockets and asked me, "Is that really the best thing for you? I think that will just make it worse." I looked down at my own feet and said quietly, "Yes, I think you're right. I just wish I could have saved him." The Doctor looked up at me, the wisdom practically oozing out of him. "You know, I think he really was happy at the end. Devastated to leave you, of course, but happy that he spent his last days with you. He really loved you, Sherlock." My heart panged. I didn't reply.

As I left his TARDIS, ready to leave this whole thing behind me and try to move on with my life, the Doctor stuck his head out the door and looked at me curiously. Clara did the same right after him. Then he opened his mouth and said, "You have a lot more adventures in you, yet, Sherlock. Don't give up. I think you're going to have a really great life."

I scoffed, "Yeah, tell me about it. It's going great right now."

"It'll get better, I promise you." I looked intensely at him.

"And how could you know that?" I asked. He grinned widely at me and said, with a wink,

"Spoilers." I scoffed again and told him, "Nice bowtie, Doctor." It was the weakest defense I could muster. He looked down at it, straightening it slightly and said,

"Oh this? Yes, bowties are cool." And that was the last I saw of him.

A few days later on my way back to 221B, I felt a cold rush of wind hit me and shivered slightly. A strange warm sensation come over me, like someone was twirling a blanket over me and I looked around. There was no one around. The cold wind was gone, but the warmth was still there.

It was a hug. The wind whispered my name along with soft goodbyes. It was late, but better late than never.

I smiled as I felt him leave me and I whispered, "I'll miss you, old friend. Goodbye, Doctor John Watson." Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.