Introduction: Using a prompt table from a livejournal community, this is a series of 100 one-shots, each at least 200 words in length. Warning(s) and author's note(s) will be issued on a per-chapter basis. Prompts will not be used in the order that they are listed in the prompt table. Rating is due to the fact that at least one of the prompts in the table have developed negative connotations since the Victorian Era.
Title: Supposed to End
A/N: This one was written for prompt #4--The End. Seemed all too fitting to my mind to do this particular prompt first.
"Where's the doctor, Mister Holmes?" Alistair Morris demanded, his pistol aimed at the detective's chest.
"Safe in his bed at Baker Street, Morris," Sherlock Holmes replied.
"I am surprised to see you here all alone without the doctor, Mister Holmes," Morris continued, as if Holmes hadn't spoken. "He is unwell, isn't that so?"
"What does it matter to you where Watson is?!"
"Because you walked so willingly into my trap, Mister Holmes," Morris explained with all the patience of a saint. "And I am not so foolish as to presume that you are so ignorant of my methods as to walk unawares into my trap."
"You threatened Watson's life if I did not come alone. What else did you expect me to do? Bring Watson with me into certain danger?" Holmes demanded hotly.
Morris laughed.
"I do not see what is so funny, Morris," Holmes remarked coldly.
"The good doctor will soon find the blushing lass he's been chasing after of late to be quite the femme fatale, Mister Holmes. And it's all thanks to your need to keep him out of harm's way," he explained.
"Tyglin Primrose," Holmes breathed.
Morris nodded.
"My daughter, from my late wife's first marriage," he said. "Really, Mister Holmes, I am quite surprised that you weren't at all suspect of her at all."
"There was no reason to," Holmes reluctantly admitted.
Watson would die, and not at his side. This was not how it was supposed to end.
And it was all his fault.