Basically i have never submitted anything on here before and fancied a go, its more to practise my style of writing, so any tips would be great, also if anyone sees any errors, change in tenses, confusing sentences or anything let me know.
Hopefully though it will be mildly enjoyable.
I dont own any of the characters from the BBC Sherlock Series, i might add my own along the way though.
Dead Man's Guilt
Chapter One – The Fallout
After three years the name of Sherlock Holmes had become a distant memory for most of London, and nothing more than a whispered scandal even then.
It was a grey Wednesday afternoon in February when a group of individuals, who had once been thrown together, sat alone and felt the same emotion. Guilt.
Detective Inspector Lestrade sat, slouched at his desk at Scotland Yard police station, a drink of coffee laced with something stronger clutched in his hands. He had tried to tell himself over and over again that believing Donavan and Anderson had been the right thing to do, but three years on, although he had the world convinced he was fine, inside the angry serpent of guilt still writhed in his gut. Greg knew that if he'd have listened to his heart, he would have stood up for his friend. Yes, he thought, despite everything Sherlock said, the once fiery D.I counted him as a friend. And he was to blame for the death of this friend, this completely individual man, unlike anyone else on earth. A new wave of despair crept over him and he slumped still further forward until his forehead rested upon the cold, hard wood.
Somewhere, in an undisclosed location, another man sat bolt upright, staring into an unlit fireplace, blinking seldomly and clutching the handle of a broken umbrella. Mycroft Holmes sighed as he stood up and walked to a grand bookcase and lazily stroked the spines of many wizened books, he continued this down the rows until his hand came to rest upon a wizened book with an emerald green cover, tattered and torn. For a few moments he stared at the book, not really seeing the title or the damage it had undergone. His thin fingers closed around book and he gently lowered it from the bookshelf, his brow creasing as he did so. It was the correct book, there was never any doubt, but would the thing he remembered still there? Before he had managed to settle himself back into the arm chair, something thin, possibly a disconnected page, floated to the soft carpet. It just so happened that this was exactly was Mycroft was looking for; thusly he crouched elegantly and picked it up before leaning on the arm of the chair.
The object was an old photograph, yellowing on its white back and with a corner torn; nevertheless the figures in the image were still discernible. Smiling up at him from the picture was his own self, 20 years previous, recognisable but very different. It was a tired smile, a smile that said, 'Please, get this over with I don't want to sit here a minute longer'. Thinking back, Mycroft remembered the grassy hill where he sat casually in the sunshine those many years ago. He didn't need to remember why his smile was so forced, because next to him, glowering at the camera with an obvious look of distaste and annoyance was a young man, a boy even, with unruly black hair and a severe face. The piercing gaze of his younger brother sent a pang of guilt into the pit of Mycroft's stomach. Despite their differences and their arguments, the petty feuds and the rivalry, the idea that his brothers remains were rotting, ordinary and useless, below ground, was an idea that made him feel sickened with himself. His brother had died because of his desperate need for information, a trade off with Moriarty, the greatest criminal mastermind the world had ever seen. The price was Sherlock's life, and it had been much too high.
There was one more person who was wracked with the same endless and terrible feeling because he had all but cause Sherlock's death. In his mind, certainly, John Watson felt entirely responsible.
He sat in his therapist's office, her eyes bored into him, he could hear other patients coughing in the waiting room or striking up a conversation. Every day he was surrounded by people, to and from work, on the bus, in the shop, but inevitably he was still completely alone.
John had tried to continue life as he had done before, and to a great extent he had. His life was tedious, pointless and nothing ever happened to him, much like when he had returned from Afghanistan. But there was no point denying, his soul was broken now too. Another wound gained from a different type of war. A war of emotion, a war of memories, a war against guilt, in which guilt was always the victor.
There were two more people that felt guilty, but this was for entirely different reasons. Molly Hooper was jumpy, quick to colour and always ready for a fight. It had not always been so, but as she was defending a secret so colossal that lives could be made or ruined by it, she became increasingly erratic in her behaviour. Molly felt guilty whenever she bumped into the few people in London still grieving for Sherlock Holmes. By 'bumped', she supposed it was more like spying on, to them it seemed an odd coincidence, for her it was just following his orders.
Sherlock Holmes sat alone in a small cottage in Switzerland, rolling a small rubber ball between his fingers and occasionally glancing at the screen of his laptop. It had been just under three years since he had planted a small camera in a tree overlooking his grave and he had lost count of the number of times John Watson had visited the black slab. It was usually on a Wednesday, before a visit to his therapist that John frequented the melancholy plot, absent of many flowers or cuddly toys or cards of bereavement. It had struck Sherlock that, unlike most human, John was not successfully going through the grieving stages. Instead, he noted that John had lost even more weight, his hair was greying at an alarming rate and there were yet more wrinkles creeping onto his face.
It was rare for John to bring flowers to the grave anymore which is why on a colourless afternoon on a Wednesday; Sherlock Holmes leaned forward towards the screen to examine the bulky object that John was carrying towards the gravestone. He tutted as he also realised that John's limp had returned; a bad day then. The tut turned into a long, slow intake of breath as Sherlock watched John lower the bulky object and heard him speak, 'It's supposed to snow this week, as early as tomorrow maybe, so,erm,' John paused, looking around him and missing the camera, 'I brought you one of my jumpers. It's the big porridge coloured one, I think you liked it, deep down, when you weren't trying to burn holes in it.' Sherlock saw that John tried, and failed to smile. 'Obviously you can't wear it. But it's too baggy for me now. I thought though, that maybe one of your homeless network might visit and they could have it. It was either that or the bin so…' Johns voice trailed off, he screwed his eyes up tight and Sherlock realised he was holding back tears. 'I'm going to see my therapist, I know you don't like her, but at least, it's someone. She doesn't try to hug me or pat my knee like everyone else. I hate it when they do that because they think they know what we meant- what you meant- how I- how much I-'each time he spoke, Johns voice got more and more strained. Sherlock had seen this many times, John searching for words that were hidden in the darkness of confusion and grief. John hugged the jumper close to him one last time and placed in on the sodden, grassy mound. He was crying again and his limp worsened as he walked away. Yes, Sherlock had witnessed John's grief over and over again, and every time his heart broke a little more. He could reduce people to tears with mere words and not care, whither people with a look and not even register it, but to be the cause of John Watson's ever continuing pain, caused Sherlock Holmes more guilt than he had ever thought it possible to bear.
Its more of a prologue than a chapter. Comments/ feedback appreciated :)