6/20/12: I fogot to put in a MAJOR element in this story, so there will be some rewrites. I reccommend you read through the story again, and I apoligize in advance for any inbox spamming!

This is set sometime before the last episode of Season 1, sometime before the 'pool scene.' A chance encounter leaves Watson confused, and Sherlock depressed. Whoever could it be?

I origionally wrote this with no plans to post it, but I actually enjoyed it; I don't think I've ever written so much at one time!

I would recommend listening to Breathe by Greg Maroney while reading this.


They had been walking, just as usual, discussing lightly the ending to a particularly taxing case. Nothing was strange, or out of place.

And then he stopped.

Now, Sherlock Holmes was a strange man, as Doctor John Watson had noticed many times before, but he was not one to stop in the middle of a crowded street, with no mention as to why he was doing it. None the less, Sherlock Holmes was stopped, and he was staring.

John wasn't sure at first what he was starting at, exactly, but when the detective began to run, weaving in and out of the crowds thoughtlessly, John had no choice but to follow.

They were in a strange sort of silence, at first; the noise of the early afternoon shoppers was still there, but dimmed, as John watched his best friend chase something unknown. The silence was deafening, the pounding of his own heart all he could hear, until;

"Anna!"

John caught a slight reaction from someone ahead of them, a girl, blonde – hair pulled up high on her head – before the woman began to swiftly move through the masses, almost as deftly as Sherlock, and certainly with the same about of determination.

"Anna!" Sherlock was almost running now, trying desperately to catch up to the elusive woman, and she, in turn, walked faster. For the first time, John noticed she was tugging a child along beside her.

"Annaleia Marie Holmes!"

This time, the woman stopped, but did not turn around. The little boy beside her did, though, out of curiosity, no doubt.

Sherlock caught up, finally, and grabbed at the woman's gloved hand, the one the little boy had dropped when he had turned, trying to discover the reason for part of his mother's name to have been called so frequently, and with such desperation.

The girl turned into him with almost no reluctance, John noticed, her face hard, eyes to the ground, with lips set in something resembling sadness.

"Sherlock," her voice, even to the doctor's untrained ears, was music, floating around them. The ex-army man had joined the couple, out of breath, just in time to witness the intensity that the one word had brought to them.

"Anna," Sherlock still had his fingers wrapped around her wrist, directly under the black lace that adorned part of the glove covering her left hand, staring into her face, compelling her to look up.

"Mummy?" the child's voice broke the veil surrounding them, as Anna, John supposed, looked down to meet her son's eyes, and Sherlock relaxed his grip, in favor of placing his hands behind him in a familiar gesture.

"Who is that?" The innocent question stirred the air even more, as Anna, surprisingly, looked up to Sherlock, with a look that clearly asked, "What should we say?"

The implied, but silent as the question, 'we' confused John even more, and he found himself looking at his friend as well, seeking the answer to a very similar question.

"John," said Sherlock, "Why don't you go and buy the boy a treat? Anna and I have some things to discuss."

It was only then that John realized that the shop they had stopped at was, indeed, a sweets shop.

"All…right?"

"Can I mum?"

The girl's answer came with little conviction at first, but grew as she regained the confidence she had exuded earlier.

"Of course, love. That's perfectly fine, if – " she looked up, confirming, "Mister John, that is, doesn't mind."

"I guess not. Come on, little man, what kind of sweets do you like?"

Sherlock gave a slight nod as Dr. Watson led the boy off, as if to say thanks, in his own way.

As far as he could tell, neither half of the strange pair spoke again until they had watched the two disappear into the sweets shop. John supposed they had begun to talk again at some point, because when he and the little boy had returned to the street, now laden with a few packages each of chocolates and peppermints, both the man and the woman looked slightly agitated, leaning into each other even further, bodies nearly touching. With any other people, John would have looked at it as intimacy, the way two lovers would subconsiously gravitate towards one another. But not Sherlock. Surely not. As they came closer, he picked up a few strands of their conversation.

"…with Mycroft."

"Hmmph."

"Although, that wouldn't make much sense, as I was quite sure I was… satisfactory…. In that department."

"Don't flatter yourself, Mr. Holmes, it's unbecoming in a man."

"Only when it's untrue."

Although the battle of wits was entertaining, in the least, it was slightly disturbing, and John found himself curious beyond reason, and was near delighted when the boy spoke up.

"Look mummy! Mr. John bought me chocolates, and a peppermint stick!"

"How lovely, dear," she said, obviously distracted, but her gaze was filled only with love and adoration as she spoke to her son. "And did you thank Mr. John?"

The boy looked conflicted for a moment, a surprisingly familiar look to John, before a smile lit up his face and he turned to the doctor;

"Thanks, mister!"

"Sure thing. I'd be more okay with it though if I knew your name,"

"Alexander Seymour! Where were your manners!"

"But you said not to tell my name to strangers!"

Anna smiled with slight exasperation, and turned to John.

"I suppose I'm being slightly hypocritical, aren't I?" She held out her hand, and John shook it lightly. "Annalea Seymour, and this is my son, Alexander, but we call him Xander, for short." Turning to the detective, "I'm rather surprised you didn't ask, Sherlock."

"I had no need to. It was a simple enough deduction. His bag and the breast pocket of his rather expensive private school uniform are both monogrammed with an 'A.' Knowing your love of history, it would be the name of someone significant, but often forgotten; you always did love a challenge. The name would have to be regal or royal, due to your near obsessiveness with power, and you would have a nickname for him far from the usual. That narrows down the choices considerably, and then pairing them with the ones that sound best with his both of his last names, it leaves only one option. Alexander."

"Good to know you haven't lost your touch, darling."

"Never,"

"Well then, now that we're all acquainted," she said, straightening up and pulling her bags back together, "We really must be going. Errands to run, and all that."

"Liar,"

John was surprised when she didn't even try to deny it, instead saying, "Yes. In truth, we will return swiftly home where I will send Xander off to his nurse for the afternoon, and then dig out my old photo albums and reminisce. I'll drink about three glasses of red wine before resorting to whisky, and yes, I probably will cry a lot, but not to worry, I'll be better in the morning."

With a final breath, she took her son's hand and turned to go.

"I'm sorry,"

Those were the last words John had expected to hear from his friend, after all that.

"For what, this time, Sherlock?"

He didn't answer, as if ignoring her question entirely. Annalea stood with her back turned, stock still in the street, a mirror image that John had seen just a few minutes earlier, before this had become strange and near impossible.

"At least let me help you with your shopping,"

This time, she did move her head slightly, so she was looking at the ground behind them, the dark arrangement of flowers and a small hat on her beautiful hair a contrast to the stark white of her dress, but matching the single glove she wore. A curl hung perfectly, framing her face. For the first time that day, John realized that she really was beautiful.

"Somehow I think we'll manage. Good-day, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson,"

It wouldn't occur to John until much later that evening to question how she had known his last name.


Please review with thoughts or comments. I have more in mind, but I realise there might not be much interest - please let me know!

-Reinette