I was toying with the idea of "she was" and "he was" for a while now, I don't know why, I just wanted to try a different form of story-telling. This story is un-BETA-ed, was written at one in the morning and was not written for profit. And the whole, I don't own Sherlock Holmes, etc, you get the drift. And feedbacks are awesome.

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She was five and he was seven when they first met. She and her mother had just moved to the village following her father's death. She was brilliant, wise and caring beyond her years. And he was not the Great Sherlock Holmes yet, he was William and he was just a boy and they formed some form of a friendship.

He was eleven and she was nine when his father's job forced his family to relocate to the city. He hated the new house, it was bigger and it felt colder too. He missed her all the time and they wrote each other letters that were never sent.

She was fifteen and he was seventeen. She was a new student, and he was trouble waiting to happen. He wasn't unhappy, but, he wasn't happy either. He no longer wrote to her, he had stopped for a year. She hadn't stopped. He pretended not to know her for a month and then found her talking to a boy her age. She didn't realize he was there, it didn't matter, and they were only friends. But, he was jealous and overbearing; she just shook her head and kissed his cheek, amused at his child-like behaviour and not at all angry of his pretense. He wanted more, so, he grabbed her hand and stole her first kiss. That was the first time she had slapped him across his face.

He was eighteen and she was sixteen, they spent the year not talking. She was angry and he didn't know how to make it better.

She was nineteen and he was twenty-one. He got into trouble and she was there to bail him out, he knew he could always count on her and she knew she would never be done saving him. Yet, he didn't even thank her, but, they spent the night talking about everything and nothing, all at the same time. He disappeared by morning, leaving no evidence he was ever there saved from her understanding what a broken heart felt like for the first time.

He was twenty-three and she was twenty-one. He graduated with honours to prove to his brother that he could. She was out with her friends, celebrating her twenty-first birthday and was too drunk to even found her way back to her dorm. Yet, when she woke, she was tucked safely in her bed and found two tablets and a glass of water for her headache. He watched her walked to class just to make sure she was alright.

She was twenty-five and he was twenty-seven. For the first time she changed her mind about wanting to become a doctor. She spoke to her professors and decided to pursue pathology as a career. Somewhere at the back of her mind she wondered if she'd ever find him lying cold on one of her slab. He was in rehab.

He was thirty-one and she was twenty-nine, he became someone else that she no longer knew, still, she found comfort in the fact that he still took his coffee the same way he always did. He would mostly ignore her, pretending as if he had never met her until they were first introduced. Though, he cannot erase her from his thoughts, but, getting too close was something he swore he would never do. Not even for her, even when she meant the world.

She was thirty-one and he was thirty-three. It was the year he died and she helped made it happen. He kissed her on the cheek and bid his goodbyes. She cried herself to sleep.

He was thirty-four and she was thirty-two. He was in Paris chasing a lead and she was stuck working the graveyard shift, her co-worker had caught the flu.

She was thirty-three and he was thirty-five. That was the year she met Tom. Across the world he was being beat up somewhere in the depth of an uncharted land. All he could think of was to return and see her face again. Just one more time. He realized – no – accepted that he had loved her all along.

He was thirty-six and she was thirty-four. He came back, finding his way to her first. He would always find her first and that was always true. But, this time he was on a mission, he was going to tell her she mattered because to him, that was better than simply saying I love you. Unfortunately, he caught the glimpse of her ring first, the one snug beautifully on her ring finger, so, he held his tongue and later he would find John punching him in the face. She admitted to herself that she can never stop loving him, yet, she had to try.

She was thirty-give and he was thirty-seven. She slapped him across his face, the second time in his life; he doubted it would ever be the last at the rate he was going. Still, he was glad because he noticed she was no longer wearing her ring. She on the other hand was more sad than furious to see him the way he was. In a matter of days he was shot and she found herself sitting by him, but, she was gone before morning. She thought he never knew, but, he did. For he could always tell when she was near.

He was thirty-eight and she was thirty-six. He was going away to his death and she was six inch deep in a murder victim's chest cavity. She didn't know where he was, though; it was never like she ever did. He barely left for five minutes, never telling her even a goodbye knowing he would never come back alive, and the plane turned. He ran to her, as soon as the hatch open he yelled for a key, he just had to get to her.

She was thirty-seven and he was thirty-nine. She was six week pregnant and anxious. He had been away for three weeks to take down a criminal mastermind that had been haunting their lives. He was successful; she was happy to have him back and held him a little too tightly, afraid that he would disappear the moment she let go.

He was forty and she was thirty-eight, they were married in his parents' backyard, the same one they used to play in when they were young. The ceremony was small, his older brother was the one who officiate the ceremony, his best friend was his best man and her friend who was married to the best man was her matron of honour. They had twenty-five guests including their parents and their seven month old son slept through the service, quite soundly, in his maternal grandmother's arms.

She was sixty-three and he was sixty-five. It was the day he had to walk his beloved daughter down the aisle. He handed the young woman to the groom, the one who surprisingly survived his queries and the girl's uncle's background checks. She sat on the bride's side, handkerchief in hand, leaning onto her husband as soon as he sat down.

He was sixty-seven and she was sixty-five, and they are welcoming their first grandchild. It was a beautiful girl with dark hair and blue eyes, one of the most perfect children he had ever seen in his life. She was too happy that she cried, he understood this for years and just hand her his shoulder.

She was seventy and he was seventy-two. They took a vacation to the place they went during their honeymoon. They walked slower than they did, but, he still entertained her request for ice cream. They had dinner with their friends often that year and see their number dwindle with each funeral.

He was eighty-two, that was the year she died. The house got a little too quiet and he spent his days waiting for his time to see her once again.

Their oldest was now a man, and he was forty-four. It was the year he and his three siblings buried their father next to their mother. They stood and watch as people turn up and spoke of many great things of their father's life, and his many great achievements. But, they knew better, for they know that their father had always considered their family his greatest achievement.