A/N: Forgot the disclaimer. Okay, so I own nothing, although if I did Irene Adler would not be dead, although Mary might be and I probably would be too cause I'd have died of happiness. No, maybe Mary would get amnesia and disappear to Switzerland where she would fall in love with Mycroft. That works. Anyways, moving on. And apologizing in advance for any OOC-ness.

Chapter 2: Watson

I glanced at what I had written on my typewriter. I hadn't made much progress despite the fact that I'd been up all night, working. I read over my words, mumbling them to myself. Rubbish, I thought. Whatever made me think that I could write, I didn't know. I had lately been trying to recount the story of our game of shadows, but I was failing miserably at it. I'd been spending hours in my study, sleeping at my desk, hardly coming down for meals unless Mary forced me to. I was certain she thought me to be quite insane by now, and she was probably right.

"John?" a voice called, sounding far away. I looked up. Mary was standing at the door to my study, her nose wrinkled at its disarray.

"What is it?" I asked, sighing. She looked at me, a rather concerned expression on her face.

"The Finnegans are here for tea, dear," she said. "Aren't you coming down?"

"The Finnegans?" I asked peevishly, and she nodded. "You couldn't have bothered to tell me?"

Mary looked hurt. "I did tell you, dear. Yesterday and this morning. I suggest you come and greet them." With this, she turned on her heel and walked briskly down the stairs. She made a point of leaving the door open, which she knew I hated, and I could hear her muttering something that sounded like "never listens anymore."

She was right, and I knew it. I never did listen to her anymore, not these days. Everything she said and did suddenly seemed so unimportant. I hated myself for feeling this way, but I couldn't help it. It wasn't her fault, it was mine. I had been the one to change. I would hear her complaining to Mrs. Hudson, saying that I was getting to be just as crazy as Holmes had been. Locking myself in my study, never sleeping, not even talking to her anymore; she was so worried. This was the reason that she had invited the Finnegans over, I was sure of it. To try to bring me back to reality, not for company's sake. She didn't like them any more than I did; I knew this for a fact.

I rubbed my exhausted, stinging eyes with one hand, and forced myself to just get up and greet my guests. The Finnegans really weren't too bad… yet, for reasons I knew but didn't want to admit, I shamefully envied them. Their perfect marriage, their perfect life, perfect family, yes, everything was just so fine and merry for that couple. It bothered me that I could never have what they did.

I wasn't just talking about Holmes anymore. The great emptiness I felt inside, the constant twang of pain in the depths of my heart that plagued my every thought, my every action, had to do with the absence of two souls. One was the dear friend whose life was taken during that fateful fall from the cliff in Switzerland, but the other was someone else entirely.

As I walked into the park, I saw her standing by the bench we always met at. Her pretty face lit up as she caught sight of me, and she immediately hurried over, crouching on the ground to pet Gladstone. Other women strolling properly down the path rolled their eyes, but she paid them no mind. When she straightened up I bowed deeply, as though greeting the Queen.

"Bonjour, madam," I said respectfully. She laughed and curtseyed. I felt a ghost a smile cross my lips.

"It's nice to see you, Simza."

Yes, Simza. The countless hours we'd spent together sipping tea and lazily walking through parks hadn't been forgotten – they never would be. Now that she was gone, there wasn't a day that I didn't miss her consoling presence. She was the reason I hadn't gone completely mad after Holmes' untimely death, she was the reason I'd still try to smile every day. The person who's saved me from such depression was her, not Mary. I liked to pretend my wife had something do with this, but I knew I was kidding myself.

Sim was also the reason why I couldn't get this story straight. Whenever I tried to write about her, I found myself imagining the way the light lit up her dark curls, how impossibly soft her skin was to the touch. I knew her through and through, could conjure up her image in my sleep. It shouldn't have been a problem. But it was. How could I write about a woman this way, when I was married to someone else? And yet, I also couldn't write about her as if I didn't care at all, for that just seemed cruel. I had to find a balance, had to-

"John!" Mary's voice called, and I groaned. I couldn't make it through a tea with the Finnegans, not today. I needed to clear my head. I whistled for Gladstone, took my cane, and went down the stairs. I began putting on my coat and heard Mary asking me where I thought I was going.

"I'm sorry. I got a call. An emergency," I lied. "I must go."

"I didn't hear anyone."

"That's because you were busy with the Finnegans," I answered sharply. I put Gladstone on a leash.

"Why on earth are you taking Gladstone?"

"He needs a walk. Two birds with one stone." Impatiently, I opened the door.

"But where will you put-"

"Good-bye, Mary!" As I closed the door I heard Mary apologizing to the Finnegans. I groaned once more and turned down the street. Gladstone waddled along after me, happy for the exercise. He really did need it, poor thing, I hadn't taken him out since the last time I had been walking with Sim.

She had grabbed my hand, unexpectedly, and when I looked at her she blushed and let go. I wanted to tell her that I didn't mind, it was nice, actually, but I didn't. To say that wouldn't have seemed right. I turned away instead, distancing myself slightly. She frowned.

"I'm sorry, I don't know-"

"It's fine," I replied quickly. Lately, I had noticed that she seemed different around me, almost as if she was holding something back. She seemed hesitant, and yet, at the same time, more daring. Like the hand-holding. It was as if she had something to tell me. I wondered if she missed Paris.

"You can go back," I told her, although it hurt. "Honestly, it's alright." She nodded, and I could see a glimmer of tears in her eyes.

"Maybe," was all she said.

I had driven her away, I knew. She had loved me, and I'd deceived her. And now, I realized that I had loved her to. At first it was as if she were my sister, but afterwards, it was so much deeper than that. I longed to be in her company all day. That was why I didn't talk to her, for a while. I couldn't deal with my feelings. It was why I'd finally told her the truth, and broken her heart. And now she was gone. I'd gone to the Gypsy tents one day, to try and find her, but the man there shook his head.

"They left," he had told me, not giving any more detail than that. I assumed, naturally, that he meant for France, although occasionally I'd walk down the street and feel as though I saw her there too, watching me. Obviously, it was my imagination.

I sank down onto the street. God, how was it that this one woman could make me feel so many different emotions? The bustling London street goers moved around me, as I broke down into tears.

Simza, where are you?, was my only thought.