Watson's turn. This takes place a few weeks after chapter one.

"Mary darling, can you hear me?" Watson whispered, gently brushing the hair away from his wife's eyes. She looked so fragile and pale against the white sheets, like a china doll. Her flesh was as cold as china as well, and if it weren't for her raspy breathing, Watson could've sworn that she had already passed on to the afterlife.

You idiot, you fool! He silently cursed himself. How could you not have seen the danger that she was in! If you hadn't been so busy wallowing in self-pity... He still remembered the day he realised the severity of Mary's condition. Every tiny detail was carved into the stone of his memory.

It had been a rainy afternoon, with crashes of thunder so loud they made the whole house shake. Watson had been summoned away because of an emergency. He recalled the annoyance that he had felt, not because he had to go out in such ill weather, but because he had been torn away from the story that he had been working on. As he was about to go out the door, he caught sight of Mary coming down the stairs.

It was here that his memory switched to slow-motion, as Mary suddenly put a hand to her head and pitched forward. Watson had run toward her, knowing with sick horror that he would not reach her in time. She fell slowly in an almost graceful arch. Then her head slammed violently against the banister, and she tumbled end over end down the remainder of the stairs. When she reached the bottom she landed hard on her right arm, which snapped like a twig beneath her. Time returned to normal speed as Watson knelt at her side. To his overwhelming relief, Mary was still alive. The relief would end up being very short lived.

Mary had sustained a concussion in her fall, along with a broken arm and a nasty series of bruises. When Watson had tried to ask her what on Earth could've caused her to fall like that, Mary avoided the question. "I must've tripped, I guess," she had said weakly, but Watson had known that was a lie. He had seen her fall with his own eyes; she hadn't tripped at all, it had looked as if she had started to faint. He gently but firmly demanded that she tell him the truth. Eventually, and very relecutantly, she revealed that she had been having dizzy spells a lot recently, and that she had been to see a specialist, who informed her that she was quite sick.

Watson was horrified by this revelation-Mary had been sick all this time, and it took her falling down the stairs for him to notice? How could he have been so blind to what was happening to his own wife? He was a doctor for God's sake-he should have realised what was going on long ago.

Mary's fall had sped up the process of the illness. During the night she would get overheated and kick off the blankets, only to then get so cold she'd shiver so hard her teeth would chatter. Watson would replace the blanket, and the evil cycle would repeat itself all night long. Mary lost a great deal of weight as she would always throw up anything that Watson tried to get past her lips. There were times when not even water would stay down.

The times when she was aware and coherent became fewer as the disease claimed more of her. Through it all, Watson would wish for some insane miracle that God would remove the desease from Mary's body and put it in his. He honestly did not know if he could survive another loss. As time went on, his prayers went unanswered and Watson gave up hope.

Now, as he sat at Mary's bedside watching her sleep, he cursed himself again for not realising that she was ill sooner. It was those stupid fairy tales, he thought, using a term that Holmes had often used to describe his writings. You didn't want to deal with the reality of Holmes' death, so you locked yourself away in your own private fantasy world and turned your back on the person who loved you most. Tears of anger and despair welled up in his eyes and he angrily wiped them away.

"John?"

Mary's voice was soft and weak. Watson leaned forward until he was within her line of vision, his breath catching in his throat.

" I'm right here darling." The corners of Mary's mouth twitched slightly, a failed attempt at a smile.

"Mary, can you ever forgive me for the way I treated you? I am so very sorry," Watson whispered, his voice shaking.

He did not actually expect an answer and was quite surprised when Mary whispered; "No-nothing... to forgive. Sweet, such a kind heart... fragile heart, like glass. So lovely... "

She was delirious and rambling, and Watson was quite sure that she was not entierly aware of what she was saying, but the meaning was clear: she felt no anger towards him, and understood why he had hidden away. It gave him a bleak sense of comfort, knowing that. He gently took her hand, then leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead.

"Thank you darling," he whispered, thinking that he did not deserve such a wonderful woman for a wife. He found himself wishing that she had inherited the Agra treasure, she would've been far better off, mand maybe wouldn't be at death's door now.

Mary's breathing began to slow, and then to Watson's horror, even though he knew it would happen, Mary's features relaxed, and she ceased breathing altogether.

"No," Watson whispered, shaking her by the shoulder. "Please Mary, don't leave me." The tears he had been trying to fight back now flowed freely as he gathered Mary up in his arms. "Not again... " He had failed to save someone that he loved again. He should have been able to save her-he should have been able to save both of them.

At the Reichenbach Falls he had known that Moriarty was at large, but he had left Holmes' side anyway to go on that fool's errand. He should have realised that the letter was a fake; that Moriarty would try such a trick. Stupid, that was what he had been, and then in his grief he had become selfish as well.

He had lost everything, and he had no one to blame but himself.

A/N: Coming up next, Lestrade's take on things.