Bwahahahahah! I'm leaving you with a much longer cliffhanger than you anticipated! You'll have to wait longer for the outcome of Sherlock's encounter with the big man... I'm trying to act like Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat... tell me if I'm succeeding.


John Watson

Emma Clearton was fun, clever, and above all else, caring. She knew my hurt and loss, but there was one problem. She didn't understand it. She also wanted me to forget him. She wanted me to only think of the future, and not the past.

Emma worked at a bank (in fact the same one where he and I solved a case for). She was always so formal and straightforward. She had to ditch almost every other date because there was a surprise meeting at the bank. WE barely spent any time together, and I felt like calling it off, but I really needed someone to hang around with.

I couldn't recover from the grief of Sherlock dying. Sometimes I would imagine or pretend that Sherlock was still alive. In fact, just a moment ago, I thought I had seen Sherlock's face in the alley, but I had to be dreaming. My mind still had a fresh image of him, his curly black hair, and darting electric green eyes. I especially missed the way he would pop up his coat collar and set his face so that his cheek bones would appear a bit unnerving. But Sherlock was dead, and imagining him would not change that.

"John, what are you thinking about?" Emma asked, grasping my hand. Her's felt cold and unloving, and it just made my heart heavier.

"Nothing, Em."

Emma stopped. "You were thinking about him again, weren't you?" She looked at me accusingly, like I had done something against the law.

"No, I wasn't," I said, hoping she would accept my lie.

"Yes you were. You had that look again."

"What look?"

"You always look happy when you think of him."

I looked down at my feet, thinking of what to say.

"That's because I am happy when I think of him."

Emma looked at me with disgust. "Fine," she said. "If you want to live in the past, you can do that. Why would I care?"

She then stormed off, leaving me alone on the street. Just to make things even worse, it started to rain. Holding my jacket above my head, hoping it was waterproof, I tried to find a good place to stay during the storm.

The closest place I knew of was Molly's, and so I set off to her flat.


The hallway to Molly's room was warm and welcoming compared to the rain outside. It was now pouring... I could hear it pound the roof, and I knew it would be a while before it settled down.

I rapped Molly's door, praying that she would be kind enough to let me in for a nice, warm cup of tea. I heard quick footsteps and the door slowly opened a small crack. Molly's face peeped out into the opening.

"Oh, hello John," Molly said, smiling her small, quaint smile.

"Hi. Er, it's raining outside, and I was just outside your flat, and I thought that I could stay here till the storm passes-"

She shifted her feet, as though she was nervous about something. She glanced back in her apartment and then back at me. "Uh, tonight's not a good night, John. I have, erm... company."

"Oh," I said. "OH. Right. Sorry for intruding-"

"Oh no, it's fine. Well, I'll see you sometime soon..."

"Bye," I said, waving as she closed the door and I turned away and left.


The only other person who lived anywhere near here was Sally, and I definitely didn't want to visit her. I tried to not talk, or even look at, her or Anderson, in case they would say, "Told you so."

I hated both of them. I hated them so much that just thinking about them made me want to wring their necks. They were the start of Sherlock's downfall, with the help of Moriarty. There was only one true thing that Sally had ever said to me.

Someday we'll be standing around a body, and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there.*

It was true. He had given us a body. The thing was, it was his own. I remember, Molly was devastated. She was the one who performed the autopsy. She kept on insisting that she should do it, even though she cried every ten minutes. She wouldn't let anybody near the body, not even me. I thought it was selfish at first, but then I realized it was an act of kindness. She didn't want me to see him like that, even though I had seen him right after he... after he...

I suddenly realized that I was on my street. I was in a new flat, a few blocks away from 221, because I couldn't bring myself to go in. I sighed, took out my key, and entered my flat. I wished Mrs. Hudson would be there, with a tray of biscuits and fresh tea, and Sherlock would be sitting in his usual armchair, playing the violin and jabbering on about some new insane science experiment he was working on.

But there was no Mrs. Hudson, nor any biscuits or tea. Just a plain room with a tiny bed pushed in the corner and a table with my laptop on it. There was no mess, or skull, or violin, or books, or... Sherlock.

With a sudden drop in my stomach I thought, 'There never will be'.


Please review! I really like tips and comments that make my story better. I hope you liked it!

*I do not own this quote. This quote belongs to the creators of Sherlock. Sorry to burst your bubble.