A/N: These are all written for the LJ community Watson's Woes, which has succeeded in inspiring me quite a bit. Sorry, Watson :-P
WARNING: if you don't like character death, do not read. AU.
Murder
It was his job, of course. He really hadn't even had that much of a choice in the matter. It was what he was good at. There was murder, and where there was murder there were the murderers. And where there were murderers there was him, too.
He feels like it should be raining. Like there should be clouds in the sky. The sun has no right to shine; the birds have no right to sing. Nothing has a right to be beautiful or happy.
Murder was his job. Not committing the murders, but solving them. Many evil men had been brought to justice, thanks to him. All because solving murders was what he was good at. It was his job.
Black is a fitting colour. It seems to consume all colours around it, leaving only empty darkness.
But perhaps, if murders had not been his job, the consequences would not have been so great. If solving murders had not been his job, he would not have had his life destroyed by a murder, committed by murderers who do not want murders solved.
The coffin is lowered slowly into the ground, the sun shining off the polished surface. It is far too bright, far too hopeful a sight. It should all be dark, like his feelings. Like his life.
He had brought many evil men to justice. But the cost was too high. If he could have traded his life of murders for a life of something, anything else, no matter how ill it suited him, he would have. But it was too late, too late.
It should be dark. It should be raining.
If his life had not been murders, perhaps it would not have been destroyed by one.