Author's Note: Hello. *Awkward silence as author thinks of what to say*. This is my first fanfic ever, so I'm still learning the ins and outs of this site. Please, please, please don't form an angry mob and come after me with pitchforks if I do anything that annoys you (constantly edit a chapter; take a long time to upload a new chapter; make long author's notes; etc.)

Disclaimers, check. I do not own Sherlock Holmes and his gang, nor do I own the world of Doctor Who. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's ghost would haunt me forever, and Steven "I Love Complex Story Lines" Moffat would just sue me. However, some minor characters are of my creation, such as Mr. Scott McCallister.

Reviews are the enemies of my enemies, so please don't be afraid to comment. Thank You!

Editor's note:

In the aftermath of World War II, a battered tin dispatch box was found in the ruins of Cox and Co. Bank. Seeing the name on the lid, John H. Watson, M.D., Late Indian Army, a man promptly carried the box to New Scotland Yard, whereupon it was submitted to examination. However, upon opening the box, a note was found on the inside of the lid. It read, "Do not under any circumstances remove, examine, or destroy the contents of this box until the year 2010." Heeding the note, the chief inspector placed a seal over the tin box's lock, and the box was placed in the Yard's most secure safe, where it had remained until 1 January 2010.

At 12:01 A.M., the Yard's best forensic scientists unsealed the box, and examined the papers for authenticity. Rumors claimed that the box contained the famed owner's notes on an even more famous man, and yet the scientists were disappointed to find only one narrative. Yet, these papers were found to be authentic in every way. The following is a typed copy of Dr. Watson's scrawl, but otherwise it is an exact copy. The papers were preceded by a letter, neatly folded, and placed on top of the stack of papers.

For the reader's sake, I must make one more comment. The handwriting on the note found on the inside of the lid matched neither the letter, the sample of Dr. Watson's handwriting, nor the narrative.

Now, I present to you the papers found in the old tin dispatch box.

Mr. Loyde Cruthar, Editor-in-Chief

To Whom It May Concern:

Throughout my years of intimate friendship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I had endeavored to keep a record of the many instances he had displayed those singular powers of deduction, for which he is now widely known. Years after I had penned our final published adventure, under the title of "The Shoscombe Old Place", the public has eagerly devoured my sensational and sadly unworthy accounts of my friend's remarkable ability.

It has come to my attention that there are those who wonder at Holmes' drastic change in personality following the events I had chronicled under "The Final Problem"...

"... Doyle himself had called upon me numerous times to ask the very question the public had been posing him," I told my celebrated friend one summer day in 1931.

By this time, I was physically unable to leave my Sussex cottage. Some days, and this one in particular, I was confined to a rocking chair by the west window. Holmes' visits, however brief, abated my ennui and pain.

Holmes sat in the darkest shadows behind me, contemplating the implications of my news. While he sat brooding, I shifted my gaze from the door opposite Holmes to the window next to me, careful to keep my eyes away from him. I settled my gaze on the bees I had kept for nearly twenty years.

After a long minute, I heard Holmes mutter, "I presume you refrained from giving the truth of The Event?"

I sighed and shook my head. "What else could I have done? I evaded questions from all fronts for years. The readers, Doyle, Gregson, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, your brother; all of them have noticed. It's a wonder I have not confessed." Against my better judgment, I turned to face Holmes. My eyes, even if they had been as sharp as in days gone, could not pierce the shadows in which he sat.

I chose my next words with care.

"Holmes," I began, shifting my gaze to my feet, "The Doctor has examined my recent symptoms; he still has no diagnosis. However, he has informed me that I am weeks... perhaps months... from death."

I opened my mouth to continue, but Holmes' voice, with a strange metallic ring that I never grew accustomed to, cut in with: "Watson, it pains me to say this to as old a friend as yourself, but you are the most deplorable liar I have ever known. That or the Doctor lies."

I smiled at the obvious impossibility of his last sentence. I began to chuckle, but it was instantly cut off by a sudden, searing pain in my lungs, and I ended with a severe bout of coughing. I stared at my hand, horrified to see a few small droplets of blood. Beyond my hand, the shadows shifted, and when I blinked, Holmes stood before me in the light, with a glass of water in his outstretched hand.

A look of great concern was frozen on his stony face.

With shaking hands, I took the glass from him and drank heavily. I set aside the empty glass and admitted to Holmes (who had retreated to the shadows while I was occupied), "Your powers have neither dimmed nor cease to amaze me. In truth, I may fall asleep tonight and never rise again." I paused to gather courage, unsure of how Holmes would respond to either my admission or my next statement. "If the truth... If the truth were revealed now, it would injure my reputation in no way. I have no intention of revealing the account of The Event within my lifetime, for your sake, but I want to set The Event to paper before I am unable to do so."

I could not see Holmes, but I am certain that he waved aside the comment as he did during our Baker Street days.

"I appreciate your concern," said he, "but nothing from here to Hell can harm me now, certainly not a friend such as you. Nothing had harmed me since..."

I finished his sentence with one word:

"Reichenbach."

"... And the Weeping Angels."

"And Moriarty! And the Doctor!"

"If it was permission you sought," Holmes said, laughing, "Then consider it granted."

For the second time that day, I dared to glance at Holmes. Upon his face was etched a look of contemplation; whether it was for my condition or for the Event, I cannot say. I sadly tore my gaze away, allowing him to move, and I was once again reminded of that terrible day of Holmes' "death" at Reichenbach.

To him, it was a death.

That is why I am determined to set the truth down while I still have the strength. From 1891 to now, Holmes and I have been living a lie. If these papers are found before the year 2000, please read no further, for the world of today is not ready for the secrets within these papers; secrets that have torn my friend asunder. However, I cannot bear to die without confessing to God, to man, and to myself. This is the account of the Affair of the Angels that Wept.

Sincerely,

John H. Watson, former M.D.

One last note, then I'll quit. If you rearrange the letters of the editor, Loyde Cruthar, you should get "Arthur C Doyle". Thanks for reading the Prologue; I should have the first chapter up soon.