SO I wasn't going to post this for a while because I wanted to get a decent head start... But I have no self control. So, this is my warning; updates may be sparse, and they will certainly be irregular.

I'm going to put a link in my profile for a song as it is the main inspiration for this fic. I'm really fascinated by what Sherlock Holmes would have been going through during the hiatus, and this song sort of embodies the underlying emotion.

I'm more than a little worried about this story because I'm not sure how far it's going to go. I's already been interesting for me to work out my interpretations on the matter, so I'm going to try and not think about it. This is for fun, after all, and for leisurely mental debate. So, feel free to comment, criticize, argue; and, hopefully, enjoy!

Introduction

It is in my retirement that I, Sherlock Holmes, take up my pen to write this account. In my youth, I would not think of committing these experiences to paper. I suppose it was out of a sense of pride. My travels from Reichenbach were not the fondest, and it is not gentlemanly to reveal the depths of emotion that may proceed from a difficult experience.

Now however, in my long age, as the demands of pride and society have diminished and professionalism bears less hold on my conscience, I have realized that I kept from myself something much cherished in this life: the companionship of a close friend. John Watson is, by all accounts, my dearest companion and a factor of humanity that I could not quite erase from my stern composure. In all of the years that I endeavored to keep my emotions from holding sway in my decisions, all for the sake of logic and reason, his kindness and character managed to persevere and touch my life. Please do not misunderstand. This is not to say that I regret my staunch adherence to reason; indeed, I maintain that it was vitally crucial in my line of work. But that is also not to say that I am not eternally grateful, in a personal sense, to have had the friendship of Dr. Watson. Without him, my career may have flourished to new heights. I would have, however, been no more than a dead man walking, for what is a life without poetry? Were it not for John Watson, my retiring age would be filled with the deepest of shadows, and it is an alternate reality that I do not dare to think about.

This goes a long way in saying something that should only take a few sentences' explanation. I hope you will forgive me this descent into the florid as I have made my reasons for doing such clear. With these considerations in mind, and in the quiet hours of this still and lonely house, I have decided that this record of events is one small gift I can give to my friend. While it may not be necessarily palatable as a 'good' gift - for surely, how can the sharing of suffering be considered good? – it is an honest gift, and one that exposes myself to a friend who sometimes, I regret, saw too little of my heart.

I, Sherlock Holmes, dedicate this account to Dr. John Watson. For the sake of laying some of my old demons to rest, and for the sake of sating curiosity, here is what happened after the grim events at Reichenbach.