A/N: I'm baaaack! This is my first new fanfic in nearly three years and my first one for the Sherlock fandom. This is kind of an experiment of sorts. I love the book series by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle just as much as I love the BBC series. So what I've endeavored to do here is create something of a fusion between the two. I love Doyle's writing style. I don't know how well this will go, taking the writing style from the series set in the 1880s and transposing it into the series set in 2010, but we'll see. It'll be a challenge. In addition, I don't normally write in first person, so that's a challenge as well. And this has not been Brit-picked, so please do feel free to correct me on any terms I may have wrong.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of what I'm working with. The characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the concepts belong to the BBC.
From the personal blog of Dr. John H. Watson:
It has been now a number of months and still I do not understand in their entirety the events which have occurred. You may recall that a number of years ago I used to recount here the remarkable adventures of my flatmate, one Sherlock Holmes. The Sherlock Holmes, the world's first and only consulting detective. You may also recall that I wrote here, too, of his untimely death.
It has been three years, very nearly to the day. Or at the least it had been when all of this began. In that time I have grieved, but I have also continued with my own life. I still reside at 221B Baker Street. Dear old Mrs. Hudson is still my friend and landlady. Sherlock's room has remained untouched and his blasted skull still resides upon the mantel, although never have I been fond of the thing. Now, though, it is a reminder of him. These things I fear I have not had the heart to change. I have also visited his grave every day and brought to it upon the anniversaries of his birth and death, and on days upon which I was feeling particularly sentimental, things which would have been appropriate to the man himself. Never flowers, although I often would see them on his headstone. I have always had the impression that it was Mycroft who habitually left wreaths of them. I always would bring a book or a sample of some kind, perhaps a block of rosin for his violin which still sits in disuse upon the desk in the sitting room.
I am, however, no longer "confirmed bachelor John Watson." In the time since his death I have fallen in love and have married. My darling Mary has come to live with me here. She has been understanding of the affections I held for the man with whom I once shared this flat and has allowed me the small remembrances of which I have spoken – for all of London knew of my relation to the remarkable Mr. Holmes and of his tragic end. But she has brought to the flat an order of which Sherlock could never had conceived. Things here run more smoothly now and more quietly. There is no more chaos, no more clutter of chemistry experiments upon the kitchen table, no more bullet holes in the walls.
There are also no more grand adventures. The kind which had me running all over London, gun in hand, trailing after that tall, peculiar man. The kind which would often have found me out of my depth, save for my military training. The kind which put my life in danger over and over but which made it worth living again. Or so I thought, until the day when I was sitting in my chair as ever, reading my newspaper while Mary fussed over tea, and to my astonishment my mobile went off in a tone which I had not heard in years.
"I need your help. If convenient come to the diner. You know the one, I'm certain. If inconvenient, come anyway. – SH"