Authors note: It should be stated I am not the owner of the characters with in this small work of fiction. That privilege belongs to those far more clever then I. I should also like to point out that it was not until I had finished writing this that I noticed it seems ever so slightly inspired by a story I had to read in english called "Dog Star" by Arthur C. Clarke. It was completely unintentional, please do not eat me alive for it. That how ever is a rather remarkable story and I highly suggest you read it if you ever come across it. And if I wasn't completely clear in my little teaser, this is taking place during the great hiatus. I would say about a year after "The Final Problem".


Holmes curled himself upon the rough blanket of his small bed. The small inn in which he was staying for the moment was drafty and unwelcoming. The entire room seemed to be filled with the despair and hopelessness he, himself, was feeling. Holmes longed for the comforts of his home, of Baker Street. The warm fire crackling in the hearth, the clean smell of his soft sheets, the rumble of coaches and the general upheaval of London. He missed the sights, the smells, but above all else he missed Watson. The way his smile would make his eyes seem to shine. His stead fast resolve and fear of nothing. The way he would always be there when Holmes needed him most.

Holmes needed him now. He needed him more then he cared to admit. He needed Watson's reassuring hand upon his shoulder and the gentle twinkle of his eyes. Even Watson's excessively romantic scribblings would be a welcome relief from emptiness Holmes felt burning inside him. Watson had been Holmes's rock. The one he could always turn to and trust above all else. But the most important thing, and the things Holmes missed the most, was the companionship and devoted friend Watson was. Without him, Holmes just felt lost. As though a vital piece of him self had left with Watson at Reichenbach. Holmes rolled over restlessly.

"It's for the best." Holmes said to himself, though in his heart he didn't believe it.

"Watson would be in constant danger if he stayed. He has Mary to think of. He's happily at home with her. They might even have a child." Holmes smiled to himself at the thought of a small Watson running about.

"He deserves that happiness. He deserves the devotion and love of a wife and child. How could you even think he would put all that at risk to go running about with you?" Holmes tried desperately to block out the painful truths his mind was spatting at him.

"You never showed him any of the devotion and caring he deserved. He would never chose a scrawny little detective, who's incapable of even protecting himself, over a loving family and a long, constant, happiness." Holmes reeled upon the bed. He was desperate for the words to not be true, but they were. They cut him deeply and he choked back a small silent sob.

"You deserve to be alone."

The last mental barb hit home directly and as holmes felt a single tear roll from his cheek to the pillow he made a silent wish. He wished the tomorrow we would awaken in Baker Street, Watson sitting at the table reading the paper and sipping his coffee. He wished he would be able to tell Watson of the cruel tricks his mind had been playing on him. He wished for one more chance to tell Watson how very much he meant to him. Deep inside Holmes knew that he would get no such miracle. He would awaken in the small dismal room with the same emptiness where his Watson used to be.