A/N: Oh my gosh! I don't have actual chapter names for this fic. D: OH. WELL. Also, I saw a couple more signatures on the petition for Holmes/Watson. :D :D :D ALL THE SMILES. Make sure and tell your friends and other supporters.

Sherlock was rather disoriented and ill as he woke up the next morning. He was lying on the floor originally on his side but he had now shifted to his back. The bottle of embalming fluid had been spilled all over much earlier that morning and Sherlock felt his stomach turn at the scent of his soaked floor.

It appears I got so inebriated that I was unfit to finish my experiment.

Damn.

Sherlock Holmes was not the sort of man who would kill himself. True if it were the absolute only solution to a problem Sherlock would have to take action and commit suicide by default. However, Sherlock was not looking at the situation as a means of killing himself at the moment. If he had in fact drank to the point of poisoning and as a result death by alcohol then Sherlock would have had his answer. What Sherlock had hoped was that he could bring himself to the very brink but just the very brink of death so that he would know that alcohol poisoning was an acceptable and viable means of suicide in the future.

However, Sherlock did not feel as if he'd even neared poisoning himself. In fact, his mix of nausea, discomfort and hyper sensitivity was no more than the average of when he'd had a bit much. Granted he hadn't a bit much since he was a boy but that was irrelevant.

Seems my body shut down and put me into a sleep to avoid getting into a further alcoholic stupor. Usually that would be beneficial but not when one is attempting suicide. Perhaps I can use the alcohol as an aid? Mix it with some other chemical. I'm sure Watson could find some-

Watson; there was thought of him once more in Sherlock's mind. It would be redundant to say that it was ever present, floating around in the detective's skull and awaiting recognition. All of Sherlock's thoughts and observation were ever present and awaiting recognition. Not that Sherlock was unaware of them. It was just difficult to focus and give proper attention to one detail when there was a masterpiece of intertwined knowledge and facts and theories.

It was never difficult to focus on Watson though. Despite an entire world, an entire universe existing both in and outside of Sherlock's mind, Watson always came into focus. Sherlock wasn't quite sure how to put it but at his core and center there were only three desires; to learn, to solve, and to be with Watson.

Of course it made sense that he'd want to be in Watson's company. As much as Sherlock would like to boil down their relationship to a reasoning of allies being beneficial and Watson proving himself both adept and trustworthy Sherlock knew it was more than that. Sherlock cared for his only friend and companion. He was the only person in the world that looked at Sherlock for what he was; a person.

Often the world saw Sherlock as he saw the world; a challenge, an aid, an amusement, a nuisance. That which Sherlock felt toward others was often relfected back toward him. Moriarty for example. Sherlock did not see Moriarty as his mortal enemy but rather a chess opponent and Moriarty felt the same way. It was a mutual game between them. Shame really that Moriarty had other goals and liked to play dirty but then he was no longer among the living so less of a shame now.

Sherlock lifted himself off the floor slowly much to his head's chagrin He rubbed at his temples hoping to soothe his enraged migraine and it seemed effective but not as effective as Sherlock wanted it to be.

There was a knock on the door and Sherlock nearly blacked out from the over stimulation of it. It was so loud as if someone was knocking on the inside of Sherlock's skull. He closed his eyes tight, excluding the sunlight from his vision which somehow made the thunderous noise more bearable.

"Mr. Law," the downstairs shop owner asked, "are you all right?"

Oh, of course, Sherlock thought, Mr. Ravensdale is expecting an invention today.

"Ravensdale!" Sherlock lowered his voice and made it more gruff but also boisterous and happy "My good man, I've told you a hundred times; you may call me Robert."

Sherlock had chosen to go under the guise of Robert Law. He wasn't sure why he'd chosen such a name. It seemed to pop into his head and he liked the sound of it so much that he'd settled on it in a matter of a mere second.

Sherlock's head was still swimming but he tried his best to keep up his act. It was important that Oliver Ravensdale, the timid but kindly shop owner, continue to believe that Sherlock was this very manly yet friendly inventor. The friendliness was to draw Oliver in but the heightened masculinity was to make him skittish enough to leave Sherlock alone. Sherlock had a wonderful false beard and nose that went along with his guise but such applications were tedious to put on at moment's notice let alone when one was hung over.

"Listen, Ravensdale," Sherlock shouted despite his head's complaints, "I'm in the middle of something rather grand at the moment. I'm afraid I'll need a few more days."

"Oh-but I, Mr. L- Robert," Oliver had a high voice, he was a thin man who was henpecked to the bone by his wife at home but he was the kind of man who really didn't mind either, "I've run out of that marvelous device you made the other day- the, um, one that-"

"Of course, Oliver!" Sherlock stated, "I've made several more, I put them up in the window the other night. Didn't you see them?"

Sherlock was tiring of the charade more and more as the days passed. He was lucky enough to have found a man who could be so easily manipulated, not the Sherlock had ill intentions but manipulation is manipulation regardless of circumstance. It was absolute luck that led to such a person existing in the world but Sherlock began to detest his luck. If only there were no Oliver Ravensdale, then Sherlock would have simply had to have returned to Watson and recreate his life as it had been but then if Sherlock had returned he would have had no opportunity to begin creating the basis of a life for himself and Watson.

As Oliver began to fade away and back down the stairs to his little shop of knickknacks, Sherlock began to question why it is that he wanted Watson to come run away with him. It certainly sounded a bit too romantic for a pair of good friends, didn't it?

Sherlock felt awkward as he tried to face that thought. This is why he didn't bother with much self inspection. Why bother with something as mundane as one's own feelings when there was so much more to see and know and experience and test? However, the thought had made itself known and Sherlock couldn't help but ponder.

Perhaps, he thought as his fingers grazed the alcohol soaked carpet, my attachment toward Watson runs a tad deeper than mere companionship.

There were the lingering touches, the lingering looks, the lingering sentiments. All lingering but lingering on what? To linger meant to last for a long time or come to a slow end. Did Sherlock and Watson linger because they wanted to last for a long time or because they were slowly coming to an end?

Came to an end. Sherlock corrected himself. From Watson's exit the previous day it was made quite clear that Watson had no intention of ever speaking to Holmes again. The detective had struck too raw a nerve and while he didn't want to admit it he was aware of it. He had most certainly crossed a line and Sherlock was sure John would never forgive him.

Sherlock lowered himself back to the floor and turned to lie on his side. He stopped clenching his eyes and let them rest at a close. There was no sense in trying to provide a life for Watson to run away to now that Watson had turned his back on Holmes. It was all Holmes fault too though he couldn't admit it.

Why did you have to marry her, John? Holmes let his knees come to his chest, I would have been infinitely happier if you hadn't. We would have been infinitely happier.

The day before, the last day Watson had visited Holmes, Mary had once again been off visiting her sick mother. Holmes had Watson for a full three days and it was truly marvelous. It was like the old days when they used to live together. Of course, they were in considerably smaller quarters and it'd been quite some time since they last shared a bed together but neither though twice of it.

Holmes recalled his desire to reach out and touch his sleeping doctor. He was as quiet as a mouse with the exception of a rare snore or two. At one point, Holmes simply gave in to what he felt was natural. He had reached over and put his hand on top of Watson's. The heat from Watson's hand radiated in Sherlock's palm. Sherlock had even curled his fingers a little into Watson's and he felt so at peace and so calmed that he fell asleep in a matter of minutes. It was some of the best sleep Sherlock had ever gotten.

Sherlock began to fall asleep as he lied there recalling the feeling. Remembering Watson was a moot point though. Sherlock knew he ought to just let the thought Watson go, just release all notions of him entirely. He'd done it with Irene rather easily so why not with Watson?

Oh, Watson, I'm beginning to fear what you are to me.

Sherlock let out a deep breath. Or shall I say were to me?

Hours later, Sherlock was in the same position he'd been in when he had fallen asleep. He was once more woken up by knocking but this time it was slow knock. Each thud on the door was weak and heavily spaced from its brothers.

"Yes, Oliver?" Sherlock mustered up a tired attempt or his facade.

"...Holmes..."

Sherlock got to his feet and approached the door. What he had just heard was the unmistakable voice of his one and only companion but it didn't sound right. It was too quiet and too fragile to be Watson. It was too broken sounding to be Watson.

Sherlock had managed to sleep off the majority of his symptoms and quickly made his way to the door. He opened it up to find Watson almost as drunk as Sherlock had been just the day before. Watson immediately fell into Sherlock's arms and Sherlock pushed hard to carry the other man's practically dead weight.

"Watson, whatever is the matter with you?"

Watson began tearing up. It was so unlike him in every way. Watson was often a very strong willed individual. He was so resilient, almost as resilient as Sherlock. His emotional distress furthered Holmes' concern. Watson held on to Sherlock tightly, his voice was rasped and sore, as if he'd been screaming. Sherlock watched with wide eyes as Watson clutched Sherlock's shirt, buried his face into Sherlock's chest, and cried;

"Mary's dead."

A/N: I know, I know. I dished out more sadness. But hey! You know what? Mary really did die in the books so there, I'm not just doing this just because. And I PROMISE a happy ending. It's just going to take a bit to get there. I predicted three chapters but depending on how things go, it might get stretched to four or five. We'll see. Reviews and love! Oh and don't forget to sign the petition! :D