a/n: this is probably the first time in a while since I've written something decent. If you've notice I changed my pen-name from unwantedslag to obsessionistxo simply because firstly I was getting mean, abusive reviews on stories and secondly because I wanted a change when New Year comes and instead of changing on new years eve at 11:59pm I chose to change now. Without further ado, please read one.
Word count: 472.
Disclaimer: I own nothing; if I did RDJ would be Sherlock Holmes being my husband.
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It wasn't the first time that Holmes had felt like this; he felt it before but not this greatly. Who would've known the person who had hurt him plenty enough times would also be the one he fell for? Irene Adler – she had brains, beauty and well maybe not class as she was a well known criminal but none-the-less he felt something for her the first time he met her. But she was gone, taken from him like the light taken from the stars. But with the handkerchief that lay dominant in his palm was the last reminder he had of her (excluding the picture of her that he had in his room, and the file of her he had locked yet again in his safe that was behind the portrait that he told no-one about)
Watson had noticed the change in the demeanour of his partner, anyone could notice the difference with Holmes, he seemed withdrawn – more isolated from the world around him that still passed by even as he got lost in his memories, but there was one thing Watson noticed the most. That far away look that Watson got when Irene was mentioned – like clouds covering the sun, that's what happened with Holmes' eyes, they'd go all misty and Watson hated those moments. It was during those moments when Holmes' would be lifeless; he wouldn't reply with snarky comments slash replies. No, he'd do nothing and that's what hurt Watson the most.
But with Holmes, nothing felt the same – he couldn't even look at a case without feeling the same ache sensation that filled his chest. So he did what usually happened when Holmes was lost without a case to solve, we would try something to occupy his mind no matter how hard it was. He downed as much embalming fluid as he could, even if it did verge him on the path of psychotic but he just had to keep his mind from going back against the memories.
Even thought Holmes' never believed in marriage or love, he knew there was some connective with Alder, something that made him want to consider a life with her. Perhaps not marriage but something that was intimate, something like what the Doctor and his fiancé had. He dreamt of it, that wasn't obvious – the detective had carved walls around his heart to stop anyone breaking in thus no-one could sense the emotions that he received when she was around.
The thing was, that no matter what Watson tried to do – his friendship with the detective couldn't fix how Holmes' felt. No-one knew what to tell the detective, how to help him get over the death of the woman who stole his heart. All he had was a reminder of how she died, how she could never be in Holmes' life.