The final story. Inspired by The Phantom of the really scary, just a romantic obsession. Enjoy!

Sherlock Holmes had never been one to give into the carnal pleasures, and after that tragic incident that left him half disfigured, the odds of him being as popular as he was before with the ladies had plumbed down. Well, the odds of him establishing a relation, not only sexual, with another living being were really low.

But as he looked at the small cellist in his arms, he felt that maybe not all hope was lost. There was something about her, maybe it was her simple attractive, or her mousy brown eyes, or her shy but determined demenaour, that attracted him to her like bees to honey. He had vowed himself to never feel again, after his former lover betrayed him, and set his flat on fire with him inside. Every burn that he sported itched at the simple memory of that fateful night.

Everyone he had met since then had either run away from him as if they were chased by the devil or looked at him with that despicable look of pity and disgust. Ashamed and with his huge and at the same time fragile ego deathly wounded, he moved from his cozy apartment at Baker Street in the heart of London to the abandoned catacombs of the L'Opera nationale de Paris. His friends, the two of them, hadn't heard of him in years, and he didn't even know what Mycroft had told their parents about his parade.

Sherlock had always found a great satisfaction in being alone, but now that he was utterly alone with no one to turn to, he found it quite unnerving, depressing, maddening.

But in the middle of the night she had shone like a star, lightinh up his life like no case had ever done. She was brilliant, she was fierce, she was loyal, she was a rough diamond. For months, he had taken her as his protegeé, perfectioning her mental skills as much as her musician skills. From a promising talent, she had come to be the best of her era. And all thanks to him, her guardian angel, her protector and savior.

He wasn't sure when that interest had turned into love, and when that love had evolved into an unhealthy obsession. Now there was no turning back, he knew that. Everything he had done, he had planned to keep her by his side would have seemed abhorrent to the logical and cold man he once was.

First, there was Tom the Clarinettist. Sweet, sweet Tom who didn't know where his freedom ended and his limitations started. He pursued Molly like a hungry dog after a delicious piece of meat. He had let him try, just to humour himself. But the second Molly started returning his affections he had decided that enough was enough and had hung him over the stage, using the pretext that he had committed suicide after a harsh critic from the director. Everyone had seemed to buy that lie. Everyone but Molly.

She knew that something was off the moment she had read the suicide note. Tom was too cheerful and overpositive to kill himself. When she told him about her suspicions, he just shrugged it off, telling her to focus her attention on more pressing matters at hand.

But after Tom had come David, Mark, Clarence and Jerry, until no man dared to approach her because of her reputation as a ''black widow''. This had broken his poor little Molly's heart and consequently, his. Molly had come to a point where she couldn't stand anymore the resented glares and gossip, so she decided to go away and return to her hometown to work in her family's business. But he couldn't have that.

Molly was packing in her room. Silent tears ran down by her cheeks. A cab driver was waiting for her in the dark of the night. The second he turned away, he sliced his throath with a paper knife. Blood splattered his clothes, but due to their dark colour it was barely noticable, he would clean them later. Sherlock hid the body in the bushes and went to occupy his position as cabbie.

He looked at her window, admiring her shilouette. She was so lovely, so dashing, so unique, he couldn't possibly keep living his life without her. He had always been an addict.

Patiently, he waited until she had finished packing the few personal effects she had and got out of the building, entering the cab.

"To the train station, please." Her voice was so soft, almost melodic. He nodded with a grunt, and spurred on the horses. The destination? His catacombs.

Many people described Paris as the 'City of light'. It was so beautiful to just watch the city from afar and marvel at the wonders it had to offer without looking at its darks and corrupted life. After having been living here for years, now he could affirm without doubt that Paris had a degree of putrefaction as equal or worse than London.

He lead the cab through those streets where misery had become a premanent resident. He knew it was a deplorable show for his Molly, but he had to get away from any suspicious eyes.

They reached their destination. Finally. An old abandoned train tunnel that would lead them through his catcombs to his lair. He had come to know Paris underground tunnels like the back of his hand.

Molly knocked on the cab window. "Excuse me sir? I think we are going in the wrong direction. Of course, he had to take care of her first. With the speed of light, he tore open the cab door and pressed a handkerchief into her terrified and anxious face. In a few seconds he reyes were completely closed thanks to the chloroform. He locked her inside and drove through the tunnels.

He had initially worried that in her anger and fear, she would reject his love. But she was too pure and good for that. With time, she would come to love him and her new home as well.

Now that he held her in his strong arms he knew he had done the right thing. The lack of cases and brain activity had pulled him into an spiral of insanity and loneliness that he had been trying to fight for years. Until she came. And then he realised.

She was the real angel, he needed her more than she needed him.

But he wasn't letting her go. Never.