Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of its brilliant characters. They belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, a true literary genius. However OC characters that will appear here do belong to me, but as to whom they are, I will leave that to be revealed with the story.

Author's note: To those who read my Harry Potter story – no I have not stopped writing. Yes I will update soon. This just hit me with sudden inspiration, and I couldn't let it float away. I promise more chapters will be coming soon and full of funness! Also, I know this chapter is like really depressing and not much action happens, but it's really the set up for what comes next!

How to Save a Life

Chapter One

John Watson sighed as he set down his pen and leaned back in his chair, looking over the journal in front of him on his desk. The ink was fresh and drying on the paper, staring up at him almost as a taunt. It had been weeks since he had moved out of Baker Street and into his own home with his new wife, Mary, and at least a week since he had seen his dear friend last. The name of his ex-housemate seemed to jump out at him from the pages, as if screaming for his attention. He had finished writing the last of his great adventures with the unforgettable detective and it left him with a hollow sort of empty feeling along with another he attempted to repress. A sort of yearning for the macabre and thrill, for the chase and intellectual stimulation. A yearning for his old occupation as an assistant to the detective he had come to call his best friend. Yes, he missed running around on those adventures that he swore he couldn't understand why he went on. He knew. Oh he knew. But to admit to why he loved it, was to accept a part of himself that was incompatible with the lifestyle he had chosen. A love of the chase and the thrill, a love of being wild and fighting crime. A love that did not go well with a wife and a house and probably children soon enough. With a sigh John shut the journal firmly. This was the lifestyle he chose. He chose Mary. He chose his love. That was the key difference that separated him from Sherlock Holmes – he accepted and welcomed his emotions and feelings, where as Sherlock did not. Watson nodded to himself. This was right. This was to be the end of his adventuring and from now on he would be a normal man, a normal doctor, with a normal wife and house…..and an extremely abnormal friend. He chuckled. "Abnormal." That wasn't quite the word for Sherlock Holmes. More like extraordinary. Insane at times, even dangerous, but still, he was an extraordinary man.

"John?" Mary's sweet voice called from downstairs.

"Coming love." he called back, setting the journal in the top drawer of his desk and pushing it shut. That was that. Time to go back to reality. After a long moment of staring at the shut drawer he got up and headed for the stairs. He reached the downstairs hallway to be greeted by the scent of fresh brewed tea and he smiled to himself. Mary turned to him from the kitchen counter when he entered the room and smiled.

"Tea?" she offered, holding out a cup. He took it gratefully.

"Thank you my dear." he replied, kissing her cheek. She smiled and turned for a cup of her own. John wasn't sure what happened next exactly, or in what order, but there was the sound of shattering china and a strangled sort of gasp, and then the sound of Mary collapsing to the floor. The sound of his own cup shattering on the floor followed as he dropped to her side, lifting her in his arms.

"Mary? Mary!" he gasped, shaking her gently. She was out cold, her face pale but her cheeks flushed and her skin beginning to shimmer with a thin layer of sweat. Panic boiled inside his chest. She was sick, that much he was aware of, what frightened him was that he had not noticed it before. He checked quickly to make sure she was breathing, which she was, but her breath was clipped as if she was having trouble. Gently he scooped her up in his arms and cradled her close as he carried her upstairs to their bedroom. He laid her down on the bed and quickly got his medical kit to examine her. He began to tally the symptoms, trouble breathing, fever, fainting…what else might she have that he was unaware of? He thought back over the past 24 hours. She had seemed fine…she ate breakfast…but not as much, now that he thought about it. Loss of appetite? That made things worse. He could only pray that no other symptoms appeared. Mary was sleeping quietly now, and he hoped that she would stay that way.

Watson's hopes, however, were in vain. Over the next twenty four hours he watched as the health of his beloved began to diminish at an alarming rate. By the next night he had taken her to the hospital and his worst fears were recognized. Tuberculosis. Its symptoms could hide until the last minute, when there was little hope of survival, and that was just what this had done. He couldn't give up though. He couldn't just sit by and let her die. He had to fight, he had to try to cure her, he had to try to will her to live. He practically took charge of her care, ordering the hospital doctors and nurses around and becoming such a problem that the hospital called the only person that had hope of calming or comforting the poor doctor.

Mary was asleep when Sherlock walked into her hospital bedroom, looking much frailer and thinner than the last time he saw her. Her skin looked stretched across her bones and dark bags formed under her eyes to show her exhaustion. Beside her bed sat John, holding her hand in both of his, watching her every breath rise and fall painfully in her chest. He cleared his throat, pausing for a moment to try to decide just what to say.

"I'm sorry old boy." were finally the words that escaped Holmes's lips. Watson didn't stir. Holmes knew, however, that John had heard him. The slight shift of his shoulder, the infinitesimal tilt of his head, all the small observations that showed someone was listening.

"The hospital called and told me what happened. How is she?" Holmes pressed on, hoping to get his friend to speak. He could better assess the situation then. How Watson was handling it, how ill Mary really was, how bad the situation really had become. John still did not turn around. For a moment there was silence and then a heavy sigh lifted Watson's shoulders and dropped them again with equal force, as if a little bit of life and drifted right out of him.

"She's dying." he whispered so softly that Holmes wasn't sure he had really heard him at first. He recognized the emotion in Watson's voice however. The sound of pure grieve and sorrow. The sound of someone who had fought so hard and finally had to give up in vain. The sound of loss. The sound of pain. It seemed the detective was too late this time. There was no assistance he could give here. Only support a grieving friend. He slowly walked over and gently placed a hand on Watson's shoulder.

"I'm so sorry." he said softly. Finally John turned to look up at him, his expression hollowed and his eyes full on immeasurable pain. The sight of such a look in his friend's eyes nearly made Sherlock look away, but he would not dare to do so. Some may claim that he was not an emotional man, but there was still a bond between himself and Watson which was more than just two men that shared a house, and there was a concern for him and his happiness that was beyond the selfish desire to have someone near him. He understood emotion; he only chose not to share in it. But this, there was no way to share in this. This pain, this sorrow, this grief, this loss, this was John's and there was nothing Sherlock could do, wish though he might, to take it away or even lessen the load by sharing.

"How?" John whispered softly, "how could this be? I'm a doctor…I should have seen…I should have known. All the lives I've saved and all the people I've taken care of…it means nothing…it's pointless. Why should I have helped them if I couldn't help her? I've failed. How could I not save her? How could I not help?" The deep self loathing was clear in Watson's pained voice. Holmes hated that tone. That belief that it was his fault. But of course, he should have known that Watson would take it this way, that he would believe that.

"It's not your fault Watson. I hear it's difficult to catch in time. The symptoms sometimes don't show till it's too late." he tries to soothe him. But Watson's pain did not ease. The torment did not leave his expression. He only shook his head.

"No…I should have known. I should be able to stop this…even now…" Watson pressed.

"Now you can help her be comfortable for as long as you can." Holmes cuts in. It was cruel, but true. Perhaps if Watson could come to terms with what was to come, he could better treasure his remaining time with Mary. Suddenly all his dislike of the woman seemed to fade. Seeing her so weak and helpless, she no longer seemed like the large obstacle that stood like a wall between him and his best friend. She was a frail, dying woman, and he could not help but feel sorry for her. Perhaps if things had gone differently, they would have been better friends. He would have been invited for dinner at their house, and they would have joined him at the opera. Perhaps they would have all gone to Mycroft's to enjoy the countryside one summer, or perhaps even for Christmas. Perhaps John would have stuck around longer, and joined in on the occasional case. Perhaps even they would have had children, and Sherlock would have been their crazy but endearing uncle. The reality of the life they all could have had flashed in front of Sherlock's mental eye, and then disappeared just as quickly. Sentimentality was not his forte. And although emotion might glimmer on occasion behind his dark stony eyes, it quickly flitted away again to a place he was unaware existed inside himself, for he had denied it since childhood. Sherlock was sure the same images had fluttered through Watson's head a million times, perhaps were even cycling right now as he looked down at his dying wife. Silence fell on the three as Holmes quietly pulled up a chair beside Watson. There was little he could do now, except wait, and offer his support when the time came.

And come the time did. Despite John's pleading, despite his comforting words of support telling her she would be fine, telling her to push through, despite all of John's feeble hoping, the moment finally came when Mary's hand grew limp in his and her breath slowed and her body grew still. It was quite as passings go, and rather peaceful given the disease she had. That didn't make the loss any easier. It was like someone had ripped out Watson's physical heart along with his metaphorical one. There was a great big hole in his chest and it hurt more than any bullet wound that had ever pierced his skin. Despite all his suffering and loss, he wasn't dead yet, and that seemed to make the least sense to him of all. Why was the sun still rising, the world still turning, the people still moving? Why was he still breathing, still alive, still hurting? Why didn't the world end when she did? How could life possibly carry on?

Holmes watched his friend suffer over the next few days and it was practically unbearable. It was as if John had ceased to exist when Mary died. He stopped eating, he didn't sleep, didn't talk, didn't move, he just sat in his room and stared into nothingness. Sherlock began to realize that the longer John remained there, the worse he would get. As much as it pained him to be away from his friend, when Watson's family suggested he go away for a while, Holmes was in no position to argue. Although he would have preferred to stay at his friend's side, Holmes could not leave London for an unknown amount of time, nor could he force Watson to stay. He wasn't entirely sold that John wanted to go but there was little he could do as John's family soon came to collect him and took him away. They hoped that staying with family in America, taking him away from all the familiar reminders of Mary, would heal him in time. Holmes hoped they were right. The idea that Watson should leave forever and never return to England again…it scared him much more than he wished to admit. And so time slowly passed….