Per request of a very special Guest, I decided to expand the previous one-shot. It is now a one-shot series! Yes, you all may have as much character angst as your hearts desire. I do not know if there is going to be an update everyday, but I will indeed be working on it everyday (because outside of the fandom lifestyle, there is no such thing as "life").

I do not own BBC Sherlock, nor do I hold any stake in the poems of Edgar Allan Poe. Yes, those are the actual words of Annabel Lee, and no, I do not own them. I was simply quoting them. Also, I don't exactly is an actual Poe compilation book exists with that title, but if it does, I also don't own the rights to that. So don't sue me.

Enjoy. Please follow, favorite, or review. (You don't have to if you don't want to. I'm just saying.)

-A Random Person With a Pen

John had fallen into a comatose-like state, only arousing himself and leaving his chair to use the lavatory or fix himself a cup of tea the way Sherlock preferred his. He found it peculiar that silence, a seemingly fragile item, could take such a hold over a space and condemn it to dullness. With Sherlock gone, it was as though a leak had suddenly been filled, and all of the water, that thirst-quenching water, had seeped into the carpet and then evaporated as if the leak was never there. It was as though a set of stereo speakers had been blasting joyful music loud enough so the entire block could hear, and then the music suddenly stopped, and all those who had stopped to listen were forced to carry on with their routine. It was like John had read an exciting epic that suddenly ended without any sort of closure. He and Sherlock had done everything together through thick and thin, but it all ended, and Sherlock still jumped to his death.

As he sat and pondered upon what the hell he was supposed to do next- if he could even find the courage to continue on, that is, John's eyes fell upon his former flatmate's chair, so posh and modern and black. Everything the consulting detective owned seemed to be black or pristine, however untidy he was, or was influenced by an aesthetic of darkness. And now, all of Sherlock's expensive things sat around him- a constant reminder, even though John was constantly thinking about Sherlock's jump. Especially that god-awfully organized bookcase filled with various texts.

John pushed himself up form his chair and grabbed his cane; that damned limp had returned, all thanks to the git who healed it. He sighed as he made his way over to the bookcase and picked out the first book he saw. He read the title aloud, "A Collection of Edgar Allan Poe's Stories and Poems." This came as no surprise to him; of course his darkness-loving flatmate would have an interest in fine poetry, especially that of Poe. John could faintly remember reading Poe works in school during a brief unit in American literature, which alluded him as much as classic British literature. Seeing that there was nothing better to do, John made his way back to his seat with the book.

There was a red ribbon sewn into the book binding, and this ribbon had been situated towards the end of the book. He opened the book to the page the ribbon was marking, the pages feeling smooth beneath his fingers. Sherlock had previously been reading in the poetry section, specifically the poem of Annabel Lee.

"It was many and many a year ago,

in a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden lived whom you may know

By the name of Annabel Lee;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than to love and be loved by me."

John was slightly confused. Yes, the writing was excellent, but why would Sherlock be entertaining himself with a poem of love? John thought he hated the idea of love?

"I was a child and she was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea,

But we loved with a love that was more than love-

I and my Annabel Lee-

With a love that the winged seraphs of Heaven

Coveted her and me.

"And this was the reason that, long ago,

In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cloud by night

Chilling my Annabel Lee;

So that her high-born kinsmen came

And bore her away from me,

To shut her up, in a sepulchre

In this kingdom by the sea."

It was starting to make more sense in John's mind. Of course, it would be a poem about love and death.

"The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,

Went envying her and me;

Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,

In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of the cloud, chilling

And killing my Annabel Lee."

He had to stop and gather himself before he continued. It was not the work of Poe that was making him so emotional, though lovely as it was. He could attest to the words and sympathize with the narrator. John truly loved Sherlock. Not in the way that most assumed, but he did love him. Sherlock made him feel alive! He was not cold or heartless in the least, though he liked to proclaim himself to be so. And now he was gone, and John was faced with the task of preparing the funeral arrangements for his best friend. John did not care what others thought of his friend after his jump; he was most certainly not a fraud, and John would believe in him to the bitter, yet thankfully received end.

"But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those who were older than we-

Of many far wiser than we-

And neither the angels in Heaven above

Nor the demons down under the sea

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee,

"For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes

If the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride

In her sepulchre there by the sea-

In her tomb by the sounding sea.