JOHN WATSON-HOLMES
1876-1952
Beloved Husband
Gone From This World
Yet He Abides For Always
In My Heart

John. They had shared more than sixty years together. Had there been sixty more, a thousand more, it would never have been enough. His lover had filled the emptiness in his life, brightened the darkness that dwelled in the abyss of his accursed soul.

He groaned softly, experiencing the deep wrenching pain of his mate's death anew.

"Why, John?"

The question, torn from the depths of his tattered heart and soul, echoed in the evening's stillness.

Why, why, why...

He cursed himself for letting him go, and yet, loving him as he did, he'd had no other choice.

"John, stop this. Please come back to me."

The pain of their separation pierced him again, as sharp as it had been the night John had died in his arms.

His hand caressed the cold, dead marble headstone, then came to rest on the slightly damp earth that covered his beloved's earthly remains. But the man he had loved more than his own life was gone. His soul, his cherished essence, had departed the mortal plane, bound for that heaven that is forever denied him.

John.

The other half of his heart... The keeper of his soul…

His solace in a dark and lonely world...

The reason for his laughter...

John, John, why did you leave me? Was my existence so repugnant you could not share it with me?

He groaned, deep in his throat, knowing he was being unfair. From the beginning, John had accepted him for the creature that he was. Loved him with every fiber of his being, with every beat of his mortal heart. Whatever anguish he was suffering now was not because of John's decision, but because of who, and what, he was.

Of what he had become.

He sank to the ground, uncaring that the moisture of the earth seeped into his black trousers. Pressing his cheek to the damp grass, he closed his sea-glass eyes, remembering how it all began...

London, England 1891

He had been observing the boy for the last thirteen years; watching, from his beloved shadows, as the cumbersome braces on the slender legs were changed again and again. A flaw in the lower limbs, the doctors said. A limp and weakness that could not be fixed. That was what kept the youth from walking.

He had watched the hope fade from wide blue eyes as the child accepted the fact that he would never run and play like the other boys who lived in the orphanage. Later, as the handicapped child grew older, he had felt the despair as the youth realized that he would probably live out his days alone, with no one to love him, no family to mourn him, or remember him when he was gone.

After all, who wanted a cripple when there were dozens of other children who were... complete in both mind and body.

He was the only one who sensed the true depths of the boy's despair, of his heartache; the only one who knew how the earthed youth yearned to run in the golden light of the sun, to walk in the silver shadow of the moon.

He was the one who heard the sound of muffled tears in the dark of the night. For others, the boy put on a brave face, but alone in his room, he wept bitter tears - tears that ate at his watcher's soul like acid. At the time he had not understood why he had felt and shared this young mortal's grief and sadness. The answer to his puzzlement only came years later when he had finally acknowledged his true feelings for the brave soul that had been born trapped in an imperfect body. Feelings that had begun with the first time he had laid eyes on the mortal and had flourished with the passing years.

He had never intended for the boy to know of his existence. Never. He had been content to only watch over the child, an unseen phantom who shared his loneliness and in doing so, perhaps ease his own.

And so it was that he was lingering in the shadows outside the room late one summer night.

He knew the boy had spent the afternoon, as he usually did, sitting in the park across from the orphanage, watching the other children at play, yearning to join them. He had watched as the couples, both young and old, strolled hand in hand along the tree lined path. He had watched families, mothers, fathers, and children, play together, basking in each other's presence. Yearning for what he knew was denied him simply due to physical flaws he had no control over.

The boy had watched life pass him by.

He had skipped dinner and gone to bed early that evening. However, sleep had not come and the boy had lain awake long after everyone else had succumbed to the lure of Morpheus, unaware of his unearthly watcher. A single candle burned at his bedside, its flickering light feebly attempting to hold the looming shadows at bay. The flame danced in the air, throwing pale shadows over the youthful face.

Now, hovering in the shadows on the balcony, he felt his heart ache. The boy was talking to himself, his voice low and soft, but not so low his nocturnal visitor could not hear it.

"You can do it, John," he gritted, voice tinged with desperate determination. "I know you can. The doctors could be wrong...It could be all in your head…"

For the next few minutes, he watched John struggle to inch his way to the edge of the bed. He watched as he pulled himself to a sitting position, using his arms to scoot himself over to the edge of the bed until his legs dangled over the side, his feet touching the bare floor.

"You can do it," he muttered. Taking a deep breath, he clutched the spiral molded post at the head of the bed and pulled himself to his feet.

For a brief moment, he stood there, his brow shined with perspiration, and then, bravely, he let go of the post.

A mistake.

He bit off a curse as John's legs gave way and the boy dropped to the floor.

"It's hopeless," he murmured, voice thick with despair. "No one's ever going to adopt me." He dashed the silver tears from his eyes. "Or love me. I'll spend the rest of my life in this place and never do any of the things other boys do. I'll never have a family... or a life..."

Using his strong upper arms, John pulled himself back up onto his bed. He sat there for several thick minutes, staring at the floor. His slim shoulders slumped in resignation. His wild, unruly blond hair fell over his forehead, hiding his eyes in dark shadows.

It grieved him to see the boy steeped in such anguish. John had always tried so hard to be cheerful for the others, to be brave. Always putting his best foot forward, proverbially speaking, not letting others see his misery. He was a young boy, on the verge of manhood, yet bound by his own physical limitations. Who could blame him for feeling that life was passing him by?

He longed to go to the dejected youth, to take him in his arms and give the comfort, the reassurance so desperately needed. But he dared not reveal himself to the mortal, dared not risk letting the youth know he was being watched.

He was about to turn away, about to leave the youth to his private grief, when the boy reached under his pillow and withdrew a small brown bottle. The boy stared at the bottle for a long moment, a pensive expression on his face.

And he knew, in that moment, that the boy intended to end his life.

Without thinking of the consequences, he barged into the room.

John Watson glanced up, startled, as a tall man swept into his bedchamber. He was dressed all in black, from his soft leather boots to the heavy woolen cloak that swirled around him like a dark, looming cloud.

The man gave him a cocky half smile and said quietly, "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

His voice was like ebony satin, soft, mesmerizing.

"Don't do what?" John asked, even as he clutched the bottle to his chest.

"Don't take your life," came the quiet answer.

He blinked up at the man, too surprised by his unexpected intrusion into his room, and by his knowledge of what he intended to do, to be alarmed. "W - who are you?!" he stuttered out.

"No one of great importance," the man said, his grin still firmly in place.

John blankly stared at the man, his wide cerulean eyes unwavering, even as his mind started racing with questions. With random selection, his mind picked one of the questions and forced his mouth to utter the words.

"What were you doing out on the balcony?" The thought of how the man had been on the balcony never occurred to him.

The mysterious man gave a slight chuckle before answered with, "Watching you."

That simple answer managed to wrest a response from John. His eyes widened and his body shrank against the pillows, attempting to put as much distance as possible between his defective body and the man in black.

His voice squeaked out with, "Watching me? Why?"

The man continued to grin and answered candidly, "Well, since I've been watching you since you were a child, I have seen no evidence that I should stop."

For some unknown reason, that statement caused John to give a wry grin, a small mixture of both amusement and disbelief. He said dryly, "Does that make you my guardian angel then?"

The man raised his eyebrows and turned his eyes upwards as if seeking the answer in the ceiling. He gave a dry chuckle and said, "Angel? That's not the choice of words that I would use, but I guess you could call me that."

John's own eyebrows were raised as he asked sarcastically, "And is your name Gabriel?"

The man shook his head back and forth and John took in the swinging of soft black curls against the man's forehead. His mind just barely registered the fact that the man had spoken again.

Shaking his head to try and clear the cloud of confusion from it, he asked, "What did you say?"

The man smirked as he repeated himself. "I said I no longer have a name, but if you want to you can call me Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes."

John blinked at the man once, and then looked down at his hands, belatedly remembering the brown bottle being clutched by his fingers. He asked, "Well, if you're an Angel, have you come to take me to heaven?"

"No," he answered sadly. "That I could never do."

"To hell then?" came the quick response.

Sherlock shook his head in the negative. On silent feet, he closed the distance between the two of them, and took the bottle from his hand. Too late, John tried to snatch it back.

Sherlock quickly backed away from the bed, shaking the bottle in time with his head. "Uh uh, John." He shoved the bottle into the pocket of his black trousers, eager to get it out of sight and out of mind. "I'll not let you take your own life. Not now. Not ever."

"I have no life," he retorted bitterly. "I've never been anything but a burden. First to my family, and now to the Sisters and nurses who must take care of me."

Sherlock gaped at the young boy before saying, "That's not true."

John looked up at Sherlock, revealing the despair and beginnings of tears in his deep blue eyes. "It's true!" he exclaimed. "Don't you think I know it is? Why else would my mother have abandoned me?"

"John." Sherlock whispered his name, stricken by the depths of the pain in his eyes.

"I'm nothing but a burden," John whispered. "The Sisters say they love me, but I know they'd be relieved if I was gone." John's head angled downwards until his face was hidden from view, his eyes focused on the light quilt in front of him. Sherlock watched silently as several wet drops fell onto the fabric, slightly darkening the frayed material.

Before he realized what he was doing, Sherlock was sitting on the bed, drawing the young boy into his arms. Sherlock held him close, surprised that he didn't pull away. Instead, the young boy burrowed into his arms, his face pressed into his chest, allowing his grief to be comforted for the first time. Sherlock felt his shoulders shake, felt his tears soaking through his shirt, the moisture warm and damp upon the coolness of his skin.

Sherlock held him, rocking the slender body gently, until he fell asleep. And even then he was reluctant to let him go, unwilling to relinquish this slight bond to the mortal plane.

The tall man cradled him to his chest until the first faint hint of dawn brightened the sky. Only then did he lower him to the bed. Sherlock gazed down at John for a long moment, and then drew the quilt over him.

Sherlock pressed a light, fatherly kiss to the boy's forehead, and then was gone, as silent as the sunrise.

He reached his lair in Cyprus Abbey minutes before the sun climbed above the horizon. Bolting the door behind him, he rested the back of his head against the solid wood, his skin still tingling from the promise of the sun's warmth.

Closing his eyes, he tried to remember what it had been like to walk in the light of day, to welcome the touch of the sun on his face, to bask in its warmth. The smile he had worn before slipped away, now as elusive as the night.

With a muttered oath, he pushed away from the door and crossed the floor. Sinking down in the huge, throne like chair that was the room's only piece of furniture, he stared into the blackness of the hearth.

The boy was in pain and he wanted to end his young life.

There are all kinds of pain... his tired mind thought. John's wasn't physical; it went much deeper than that, piercing his heart, his soul. Tired of hoping and praying, he felt he was a burden to the handful of nuns who ran the London orphanage.

Sherlock's heart ached for him. The child had been born to wealthy parents, but from the day of his birth, the Watson family had been plagued by a constant stream of bad luck. The family's wealth and future lost to them all through a series of bad accidents, had caused John's father to give up, eventually committing suicide in the basement of their home. John's mother, already having lost a daughter, snapped with the loss of both her husband and her home. She fled from the family's last refuge, abandoning her only surviving child, never to be heard from again.

It was no wonder John was so bitter, he mused. Perhaps he should have told the boy that he was the single ray of tangible sunshine in his own miserable existence, that his life had purpose, even if it was only to bring light into one man's... no, one creature's world of darkness.

But he couldn't tell him that. Sherlock couldn't give hope when there was none to give.

As he felt the sun rising, Sherlock felt the faint lethargy that came with the dawn, a lassitude that filled his entire being. Although it wasn't as strong now as it had been over 900 years ago, it was still potent enough to leave him feeling powerless. When he'd first been... made... centuries ago, he had been unable to withstand the overpowering weakness that had come with the sun. He had been left drained of all strength, helpless to resist the calling of the restorative sleep of the undead. However, as the centuries had worn on and he got older, he also became stronger. At first he had reveled in the fact that he could withstand one of the few instinctive callings of his breed, but he had also learned that he was not yet infallible.

The true touch of sunlight on his body still held the promise of death. He feared the sun, the agony of a fiery demise. It was the one and only thing he feared. He had learned that he could withstand the rays of the early morning and late evening sun with a few minor burns, but he was still forced to hide during the hours when the sun was at its peak. However, it would only be a matter of time before he could completely walk in the sunlight with no fear.

As Sherlock allowed his ennui to fill his weary soul, he thought back to those days when he had first awakened to his new life. Those times had been filled with confusion and frustration. The lust for mortal's blood had filled him with self - loathing, yet the temptation to drink and drink and drink had been too strong to resist.

His hearing, sharpened to new heights of awareness, had been bombarded with noise previously unheard. His vision had taught him to be more careful of where he cast his eyes, to avoid prying too closely into the menial lives of those around him. However, the toughest of his new abilities had been the psychic gifts. It took him decades to learn to completely shut out the thoughts of others, to regain his sense of inner quiet, previously taken for granted. Yet, it was in the receiving of these new gifts that he had become like a child. Faced with these new... toys... he had tested the limits of his powers, his endurance. But in the testing, he had needlessly brought pain and death to those fragile mortals who had crossed his path.

Filled with loneliness, with no companion, mortal or immortal, to accompany him, he had left his homeland and wandered throughout Earth, always searching for a new haven, for a new place to call home. In time, he had learned to control his blood lust, to control the need. Taking only what he needed and leaving his victim unaware of the slight loss. It still disgusted him that he must take the life's blood of others to sustain his own existence. However, he had accepted it. It was either that, or go utterly mad.

And an insane vampire was a doomed vampire.

Sherlock slumped down into his chair, shrouded in the darkness that was his constant companion, with his bleak thoughts as company. For centuries he had prowled the earth, content to wander aimlessly, caring for no one and letting no one care for him. At least, until the loneliness became unbearable.

It was only then that he had fully accepted what he was and then turned to the next step.

To find himself a mate. To find the special someone who would see past the monster he had become to the man he had once been.

He'd had no trouble for companionship over the millennia. He needed no reflection in a mirror to remind himself that he was still a virile male in his early peak. When he had been changed, he had been a young rebellious youth of 34 years. Although young by the standards of today, he had been considered a man in the time period of his birth, mortal life spans being considerably shorter way back then. His eyes were a gray glass that rivaled that of the purest silver, cool and deep, twinkling with hidden knowledge acquired over the years and the spark of youth that not even his great level of cynicism could destroy. His face was pleasant enough, his lips full and sensuous, cheekbones held high and hollow.

He'd had no trouble finding women, or men for that matter. He did not really care about the actual gender of the person, rather the external and internal beauty of the subject. He found both forms pleasing and arousing. He had had many companions over the years, both male and female, highborn or low. Each eager to please and shower him with affection, until they discovered his true nature and what he was. Some turned away in disgust, some in horror. It didn't matter, it was all rejection and it all caused blows to his heart. Eventually he had given up on trying to find a mate and took solace in brief relationships, often fleeing before his companion could figure out what he was.

But even these shallow, temporary solutions had tired and he had grown heartily sick of his existence. He had several times in the recent history been tempted to succumb to the death that beckoned sweetly.

Thirteen years ago had been such a time. He had been on the very edge of sanity, willing to jump off the cliff and destroy himself. He had been sorely tempted to walk straight into the sunlight, to feel the sun's rays on his face one last time before it destroyed him.

That had been the night he had seen John for the first time, a small, blond haired child no older than two, huddled in the corner of an empty room.

He had been crying softly, as if he was afraid of disturbing the quiet of the night, and the sound, so filled with sorrow, had drawn him out of his shell of misery and self pity. He had followed the sound of tears until he had come to an elegant manor house in the upper echelons of society's finest in London.

He had stopped crying the instant Sherlock had picked him up, staring at him through dark blue eyes filled with tears. And then John had smiled at him, a sweet, innocent smile filled with trust. Sherlock had at that moment vowed to protect the boy as long as he lived. For once, his life had meaning again.

He had searched endlessly though the house for the child's mother, but had found not a trace of the woman. In fact, the house had an empty, un - lived in feeling to it, the furniture being covered in white sheets, the closets empty.

It was only later that he had learned young John's story. That John had been the only surviving son of a woman and that the woman had fled her home in the middle of the night. The neighbors had assumed the child had been with her.

It was that same night that Sherlock had decided to take John to the orphanage run by the Sisters of Eternal Light. When he had handed the young boy over to the nuns, he had stared up at Sherlock, his little face looking sad, as if he realized he would never see him again.

His heart lost to the young child, he had been watching over him ever since...

London, England 2010

Sherlock sat basking in the warmth of the sun, an action that had once eluded him, so long ago. However, he had found upon his recent awakening that the sunlight no longer had an adverse effect on him. It was then that he had remembered that his 1000th birthday had come and gone in the time he had remained oblivious to the world. As Sherlock opened his eyes to look up into the atmosphere of the sky, his thoughts took a meandering course of his recent past.

Many changes had been wrought upon humanity since he had gone to ground half a century ago. Upon rising from his fifty - five year rest, he had spent weeks reading newspapers and magazines -and a new, delightful device known as the "internet",-from the world over in an effort to bring himself up to date.

His first instinct initially after he awoke had been to leave London, not being able to cope being in a city that held so many memories of John. But he couldn't bring himself to leave, having traveled the world and back again, London was the only place he felt at peace. A miserable part of him acknowledged John would not want him to leave him either.

His Sire brother, Mycroft, having not seen nor heard of Sherlock in so many decades, had immediately set him up a new home; the manor he had once shared with John was long since condemned, despite him owning property rights. Sherlock stoutly refused his brother's assistance, instead setting himself up temporarily in a smaller flat, until he located one closer to downtown London on his own.

So he, over the course of five years, became acclimated back to society. Its many technologies (mobile phones, computers, and distractingly large vehicles running on roads that once held horses and carriages) both baffled and fascinated.

He started his enterprise again, consulting detective work. Despite times changing, criminals and crime never went out of style and over the course of those five years, he had managed to endear himself to the Detective Inspector's (known as Lestrade) good graces, finally finding cases and crime to both distract and focus him.

And here Sherlock sat, perched on a wooden stool at Bart's Hospital, fingers delicately clasped around the dials of a microscope (its technology had only advanced in the time—and new scientific advancements thrilled him).

Down the linoleum hall he heard the familiar timbre of a doctor's voice, walking along side someone with an awkward gait. As quick as the observation was made, Sherlock dismissed it as irrelevant, his mind wandering away from his Work as it so often did these days.

He reached up with his hand and pulled a slender silver chain from underneath his shirt. Dangling from the end of the chain were two rings, a matched set. The soft light of the lamp above him glinted off of the thin gold bands as he slowly twirled them in his hands. He didn't need to focus on the inside of the bands to remember what he had had inscribed on each.

S&J, love for always

Together for always... yet he was alone.

John had been dead for more than half a century, yet Sherlock felt his loss as keenly as if he had passed away only the day before.

John. If he had ever regretted his decision to spend his life with Sherlock, he had never admitted it.

As the years had begun to take their toll, Sherlock had begged him to accept the Dark Gift, but he had steadfastly refused. He had watched his lover grow old, watched his hair turn gray and his blue eyes grow dim while he stayed forever young. And yet, Sherlock had loved him till the day he had died, loved him wholly and completely. Toward the end, when he knew John had only hours left, Sherlock had begged him to pray for him, to ask whatever deity he believed in to be merciful to him.

They had shared 60 years together before he had died in Sherlock's arms. Even then, John's last thought had been for him. Remembering how alone Sherlock had been when he first came to him in the orphanage, John had implored Sherlock to forgive him for leaving him behind, had urged Sherlock to find someone else to love.

Sherlock had buried his lover in a serene spot behind the manor, in the coffin he had never used. And because Sherlock could not bear to leave him there, alone in the darkness, because he could not bear to face the world without his mate, Sherlock had taken care of his financial affairs, sold all his property save the manor, and then burrowed into the ground beside the casket that held his remains. Sherlock had slept there for over fifty years, sleeping away the years in the hope that the pain of his loss would have lessened when he emerged again.

It had been a futile hope. Sherlock had risen to a changed world, but his grief had remained the same.

He had been tempted to end his existence, to walk into the sunlight, if it meant he could have rejoined his beloved in the afterlife, in heaven. But he knew that nothing good awaited him when his existence finally ended. The best he could hope for was eternal darkness; his worst fear was that he would find himself in the bowels of an endless, fiery, unforgiving hell.

And then he had learned that sunlight no longer affected him. Sherlock found he didn't have the courage to strike his own breast with a wooden stake. So the only choice left was to go on living, with only half a soul.

Upon rising from the earth, he had spent a month in the manor house, long since condemned and utterly empty, and the loneliness, the knowledge that John was forever gone, had weighed heavily upon him. The torment had been unbearable as he walked through rooms that had once been brightened with John's laughter, knowing that he would never return. He had arranged with a lawyer to handle his financial affairs as needed, and closed the manor down, fleeing.

He had spent his last night kneeling at John's gravesite, bidding him a last farewell as he relived the precious memories of their first meeting. And then he had fled. Fled from the loneliness and from the grief.

Everywhere he had gone, he had been subjected to the changing times and ideals. Empires had crumbled, civilizations had disappeared, new cities had been created, allies had become enemies and enemies had become allies. Wars still tore apart the world. There had been much to learn, and for a time he had managed to bury his grief. But the emptiness still remained.

Sherlock shook his head to clear it from his morbid thoughts, tucking the rings carefully back into his shirt, blinking away his grief. The old, familiar hunger had begun to gnaw at his insides.

That, at least, had not changed.

The two human bodies outside the door grew closer and Sherlock felt his lip curl in an irritated snarl. He was attempting to focus on a case, the body Molly held down at the morgue would need checking on shortly, and he did not need the distraction.

Before the door had opened, Sherlock carefully ran his tongue over his teeth, lightly brushing against the overly sensitive canines. The recognizable frame of Mike Stamford entered, followed by a second, unknown body.

Sherlock caught a glance. A heartachingly familiar crop of short blonde hair, the familiar straight posture of a soldier. The face that stared back at him was strong, but handsome; features that repeatedly haunted Sherlock in his dreams.

There, giving him a non committal look from bright blue eyes, was John Watson.