I realize this is the BBC show, but I fear Sir Arthur Conan Doyle may unknowingly guide my hand at times. After all, that was the original Sherlock Holmes.
"Sherlock, do you believe there is a meaning in life?" Caught completely off his guard, Sherlock eyed John for a moment before replying,
"You should know, John, that I don't ponder issues of that sort. I observe the known, and the known only."
"But surely, Sherlock, you don't solve cases and fight 'on the side of angels' merely because it's enjoyable? You must believe in something deeper than that, for then you would have no trouble being a Moriarty to pass the time." Sherlock stopped pretending to type on his laptop, and faced Watson, puzzled.
"John, what has happened to you? You have had a rare experience, I presume. Something to do with music." John refrained from asking how he had deduced that, but shared his recent incident.
"Yes. Well, I've felt before that there is more to life than simply living and dying. If that were all that life was about, what is the point of living? Why not simply die and get it over with? What is there to look forward to?" Interest was not written on Sherlock's face, but it was gnawing at his mind, for, though he would have died before admitting it, thoughts like these had often circled through his brain. His lack of emotion was only a front, for deep down, he felt. Was there any reason for living? Since there was life, there had to be a task for it, didn't there, a job?
Also, he had never seen Watson open up like this. Slowly, he was learning how multi-faceted his friend's personality could be.
Watson continued. "Then I met Mary. Once I did, life suddenly seemed brighter and happier than it had before, and I discovered purpose. She was my new meaning in life." He paused for a moment, a smile growing on his face. Remembering himself, however, he looked back at Sherlock. "I began wondering why relationships affect us so much. Why can we love people so much?"
"I wouldn't know," remarked Sherlock drily, desperately trying to mask his heart.
"I don't believe that for a moment, Sherlock. You are a human, and humans have emotions." Startled, the detective stared at his laptop's blank screen, acting as though he were intensely concentrated on something. Watson wasn't fooled, but said nothing. "The other day, I heard a song. Do you ever recall memories of your childhood, Sherlock?"
"No. Reminisces are purely fantastical wishes for the past, which is entirely impossible to relive."
"Well, fantastical or not, I remember many scenes from my boyhood, be they pleasant or otherwise. Our family always went to church on Sunday morning, and I retain many of the lessons learned there." Sherlock grew rigid while John continued, for this speech by his friend was hitting home.
"I heard a song the other day, one which we used to sing in church. Let me see if I can pull it up on here." Watson proceeded to search on his computer for the tune. Sherlock said nothing, but his mind was working as hard as it ever had on any case before. After several moments, John said,
"Ah, here it is. 'Amazing Grace' is what it's called." As the strains of the melody floated through the air (played on a violin, of which Watson was well aware), Sherlock sat tensely as he re-imagined a scene which had occurred over two centuries before.
William Pitt was crying, utterly scared. He was dying, and for him, death was the end of all things.
"I'm scared, Wilber," he choked. "At this time, I wish I had your faith." His close friend, William Wilberforce, reached for his hand, patting it reassuringly.
"Billy, it's never too late to put your faith in God."
"But all the evil things I've done, Wilber, -"
"All are covered by the blood of Christ." William Pitt closed his eyes tightly, and a few tears leaked out. After a long while, he opened them again and whispered,
"There was a song you would sing sometimes, the song that was played at your wedding. 'Amazing Grace' I believe it was called. Please sing it for me, Wilber. Please." Wilberforce consented gladly, willing to do anything to comfort his ailing friend. In his hearty tenor voice, he began to sing the song that had defined him:
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost, but now I'm found.
Was blind but now I see.
When we've been there ten-thousand years
Bright shining as the sun
We've no less days to sing God's praise
Than when we first begun.
When he concluded his hymn, Pitt lay sobbing silently in his bed. Tears rolled down his cheek, and he squeezed Wilbur's hand.
"Thank you. Thank you. I've found peace. I've found Him." Wilberforce found himself crying as well.
"I'm so glad Billy. I've been hoping for this so long. How do you feel?" However, when receiving no reply, he glanced down at his friend's still form and realized he had gone to a better place.
With a shocked expression on his face, Sherlock stared at John, mouth agape.
"How on earth did you learn my ancestry?" It was now Watson's turn to be taken aback.
"What? I didn't learn anything! I merely wanted to play that song for you." Then, after a moment's pause, he asked, "But what did you think I had learned?"
"William Pitt the Younger."
"Sorry?" John didn't know if he was supposed to recognize the name or not. He didn't, and waited for the detective to expound. It took a few silent minutes, but Sherlock finally continued.
"William Pitt, my distant uncle from some centuries ago, my namesake, and also whose likeness I am told I bear." Intrigued, Watson prodded Sherlock on.
"And, why did that song remind you of him?" But Sherlock was finished explaining, and portrayed that plainly in his silence. Watson, not being a daft person, took the hint and rose to go, saying,
"Well, Mary's probably expecting me at home, and I'm sure I've bothered you too much already." Sherlock was in his mind palace, though, fingertips together and eyes staring at nothing, and he hardly registered John's presence or his exit. All the events of the past few minutes had given him much food for thought. He needed no nicotine patches at a time like this.
The next afternoon, Sherlock was interrupted by a knock on his door. Upon opening it, he was surprised to see John again. Watson rarely visited the flat more than twice a week since he had been married, and never two days in a row. Knowing something important had summoned him, Sherlock motioned for him to take his usual seat. John did so, but he was already talking before he had completely settled himself.
"So, Sherlock, I went home last night and looked up that William Pitt you were talking about. He was the Prime Minister! You didn't tell me that!"
"Why should I?" said Sherlock quietly. Unperturbed, Watson continued.
"But that's not all I found. Sherlock, did you know he had a very good friend called William Wilberforce?"
"Did he?" asked Sherlock languidly. He knew this very well, but wished to appear ignorant.
"Yes, he did. And you know what? Wilberforce was friends with John Newton, the man who wrote 'Amazing Grace'!" Sherlock merely nodded, not overly excited with this old news. Sensing his distraction, John altered his approach.
"Sherlock, Wilberforce practically made 'Amazing Grace' his theme song for life. That was how William Pitt was introduced to it." Sherlock knew all this, but he was jolted by what John said next.
"My distant aunt, Lucy Watson, married into the Wilberforce family. She knew William Pitt." Sherlock had always lived on the theory that 'there is no such thing as coincidence; the universe is rarely so lazy'. But now, with this new information in hand, he felt he should re-evaluate that belief. Watson seemed to divine his thoughts.
"That can't just be a coincidence, Sherlock." Then, deciding to let Sherlock think on these things, John left. The great detective watched him leave, contemplating what he had learned, and ultimately coming to a conclusion completely opposed to his whole way of thinking: There was more to life than that which could be observed. Coincidences didn't happen. They were planned. But by what? Or Whom?