My creative writing homework. Not my best work, but I'm pleased for a first Sherlock Holmes fic. We were given the line "Where were you last night?" Luckily I've even been able to write this - We've been given essays galore as of late, so I apologize to those of you waiting on my writing, specifically the readers of Penpals.

"Where were you last night?" she asked him quietly, her usually pleasantly lilted voice broken and fading away into the hazy scenery of their sitting room. The shadows shifted and moved, made alive by the dimly lit fireplace. John could imagine every dark curtain and corner an audience member, watching as he played his part of the unfaithful sinner flawlessly, silently judging his faulty morality. Instead of responding, he sat across from her and poured himself a cup of her tea. It was cold.

"I believe I asked you a question?" Mary's voice shook, betraying the hurt, anger, and frustration he knew he had caused by his absence. He looked up at her and truly saw her for the first time since he had returned to their home - she was still wearing her wedding dress, now wrinkled and stained because of the hours she must have spent in it. Its original white was now faded, she herself now seeming to fade into the scenery of the old house. The dramatic silhouette of her wedding dress disappeared into the shadows behind her where John knew the spectators waited for the scene to begin, but maybe that was the hangover talking.

"Why don't you put on some lights, hm?" he asked her softly, sounding calmer than he should have.

"Because I do not want to put on any damn lights!" she snapped, her shrill voice causing him to hesitate, "Why weren't you there? Did you forget? Was there an emergency, an accident, or did you purposely try to humiliate me in front of everyone I have ever met?"

The audience was appeased, their hateful gaze intensifying with every word spoken. He could hear their incriminations - cheater, adulterer, unfaithful, all accusations correct because of the foreshadowing in the prior Act. The way he would spend hours at his practice, not returning home until the early hours of the morning at which time he would roll into bed beside his fiance, sometimes still fully clothed and reeking of booze and gambling.

He didn't want to think about it, but he could see it playing out in his mind - their friends and family all waiting until it was obvious he wasn't coming, the humiliation Mary must have felt as the guests unsurely stood up and started to dwindle out of the church. He wondered how long she waited there, perhaps worrying about him. Or maybe she realized and went home, too tired to care.

"You know that is not what I intended -"

"Then what did you intend, John?" she demanded, strawberry blond hair swaying chaotically as her head snapped up to face him.

"Can you possibly imagine what would have been whispered in the streets, the distorted stories of what really would have happened? I'm sorry I embarrassed you, but it's better this that we did not go through with it. It would have ruined your name."

Mary played her part well, holding every beholder's still-beating-heart in the palm of her delicate hand as she desperately wiped at her tears. He finally stood, refueling the fire. Even that longed to punish him, its orange tongues licking at his sensitive skin.

"So you would rather pine for someone who pines for another? You know just as well as I do how that will end," she said, thin fingers knotting themselves. My silence confirmed her accusation.

"And you know just as well as I how unfair it would be to you if I entered a marriage knowing I love someone else."

Her silence left him nervous and clumsy. He dropped the poker as he tried to hang it beside the fire place again, the words repeating in his mind It's all an act, I love her, it's all an act.

"But you said - "

"I love you," he said, watching as her breast fell with every exhale, fearing for the pulsating organ beneath, knowing the bad health it was in. He was a doctor, after all.

"Then I don't see the meaning of this."

John looked at her questioningly, finally turning back to look at her from where he was in front of the fireplace.

"I told you before that I don't have very long," she started slowly, her eyes glued to the fire, "Eight months, a year at most. He will wait, no matter how he pines for that other woman, he will always be there for you, loving you in some distorted fashion. You'll take good care of me, I know you will. And I know you well enough to know that you will be faithful to me physically. When I die, you'll be free to do as you choose."

Eyes misted in the eyes of the female audience members, all in awe of the martyr before them, and they had to remind themselves It's all an act.

"I couldn't do that to you, Mary."

"But could you do it for me, John?"

His shoes scuffed against the floor, the only sound in the room, the theater.

"I can't promise you happiness," he whispered, sitting before her once more, the shadows flickering with the growing fire.

"But you can promise me 'Til death do us part. And we will part. Soon."

He didn't need to say anything for her to see his acceptance. He had always just wanted to make her happy, a reason he didn't show up the night prior. The audience began to clap, drowning out Mary's voice as she began to tell him what he would tell their families, her story putting him on a pedestal and making him sound heroic. He didn't deserve her love, her admiration, but he would try to make her last days on earth as happy as he could.