AN: Sorry that I was so late to join, but I decided to throw my hat in the ring and do a collection of short stories based on the prompts for Hades Lord of the Dead's December Challenge! I'm deeply touched that you'd consider me for this, I'll try my best, even though I'm a newbie to writing Sherlock Holmes Fanfiction! I will regularly flip flop between Watson's POV, 3rd Person POV, and Sherlock's POV as I see fit, I'll mark it at the top of the page.

Day 1(Day 1 for me, Prompt 9 for you all, lol): From V Tsuion-Fate

Warning: Mentions of death and suicide

3rd Person POV

It had been a particularly bitter evening, full of the first winter snap of early December in 1898. For the Great Detective, Sherlock Holmes, and his companion Doctor Watson, the seasons' chillier months always seemed to bring out two different reactions in London's gentry. One of bitter anguish, preyed upon by the dastardly villains the city had to offer, and one of unextinguished hope.

Sherlock Holmes had long since been used to that Watson fell firmly into the camp of the latter-it seemed that no amount of cases they got could extinguish the Doctor's desire(or his own) to see justice done. Prior, however, appeared to be a break in that assumption. Watson had strode into their lodgings of 221B Baker Street, slamming the door as if it had offended him, and thrown himself into the nearby armchair by the crackling fire, saying nothing to Holmes apart from a terse greeting.

He had been that way for the past quarter of an hour, and as much as Holmes relished in the silence, he could not help but feel a twinge of curiosity for what caused his friend's bitter mood.

"My dear Watson?" Holmes broke the silence with his usual logical, yet warmly brief greetings towards the man. "Something has been nagging on your mind, and I aim to find out what."

Watson shot him a look, which could only be described as loathing if Holmes did not know him as well as he did. Intervals of fury, sadness, and regret danced in his gaze before he turned his head, refusing to meet Holmes's eyes. "I thought you could know everything about me, Holmes." He said.

"Watson, you of all men should remember that what was described in Poe's story was a mere parlor trick." Holmes countered as he stretched his spindly limbs, peeling himself from the settee he had perched on. "I do have singular links in this chain of events, you see, but-" He cut off, his stoic facade cracking, eyes dimming as he noticed his friend's defeated posture.

"You have come to my aid at my most vulnerable, Watson. Will you not allow me to do the same for you?" He asked softly, placing a hand on his friend's elbow. That garnered Watson's attention, long enough for Holmes to see that tears were beginning to prick his eyes.

"I shan't tell you." Watson said, his jaw clenching and stubborn through the tears. "You will say I am too emotional or that I place my intellect and attachments in a place that they should not be. I know you, Holmes, you are not the type to mull on meanings you see as poetic. So go ahead, deduce it off of me. It is what you do best." Said he, his voice choked with bitter anguish.

Holmes was more than happy to rise to this challenge if it meant hearing what was troubling his Boswell so much. He leaned forward from his position by Watson's side, scanning his form for any sign of injury while analyzing him.

"In my years of lodging with you, Watson, I have come to notice that you develop rather interesting expressions when you are feeling enraged or annoyed. Your eyebrows knit themselves together, and your face hardens to what it was back in Afghanistan. A habit you acquired from your instructors. And yet… while you take me a man without the inner touch to my emotions such as yourself, I can tell you are affected by one of the cases in your practice." The Detective observed, scanning the rest of his face.

"You are feeling regretful. With this chain of events, I can tell this: you have lost your patients that you were caring for. You have yet to sleep since the day prior due to this."

Watson nodded, his head stiff and sluggish. "You are correct in your deduction, Holmes." He mumbled, letting the conversation die out. For what seemed like mere minutes, neither man was willing to break the silence apart from the crackling, spitting embers of the fire before them.

The silence weighed on Watson, and he could bear the strain of it no longer, as much as he tried to worry his lip between his teeth to keep himself from speaking. He would go mad if he tried being stubborn any longer, he felt.

"Holmes, do you believe in Fate?" Watson asked quietly after deciding to speak, his usual eager tenor cracking as he tried his best not to look so melancholy in front of his companion. His hands wrung together, clasping and unclasping as Holmes snorted.

"I do not, Watson. Fate is a trifle invented by the commonplace to feel better about events that they can not comprehend, nor control because they lack the singular logical mind to achieve such a feat." Said he, raising an eyebrow. "Are you a sudden believer, as a man of science?"

"What sounds like a mere trifle to you, Holmes has guided the hearts and minds of long-suffering men." Watson said, drawing out his whisper as if he were speaking for the first time. "I have never been such a man, but after what I have seen to-night at my practice, Holmes, it shakes me to my core."

Holmes's face shifted, suddenly alert and resolute, boring his hawk-like gaze into Watson as the Doctor roiled in his agitation.

"Mrs. Hudson! Would you bring Watson a hot cup of coffee, please?" Called he, as Watson glanced up, shaking his head.

"Holmes, you have no need to fret over me; I shall be right as rain after this night is over." He protested, as Holmes tutted.

"Watson, you are my friend, and as of right now, my client. I find it fitting to do everything in my power to aid you; however I can. Now-" The Detective said, plopping himself into the sofa directly across from Watson.

"Be as precise as you can with the details so that I may form an opinion on the matter."

Watson hesitated, allowing Mrs. Hudson to arrive with the requested coffee, depositing it into Watson's hands. For that, the Doctor seemed grateful to have, channeling his tension into the crafted porcelain.

"Do you remember the patients that I told you I had a night prior?" He asked as Holmes nodded, tenting his fingers in front of him.

"James Stockwell and his wife Elizabeth, indeed. I deduced that they had fallen ill from scarlet fever for you and your fellow doctors, Watson." Said he.

Watson's fingers trembled over his cup, as he gave an audible dry swallow. "They passed this evening. Exactly two and a quarter hours apart from each other. Their case seemed to eat them alive overnight, exactly as you deduced." He said, his voice a flat yet emotional monotone.

Holmes sat forwards at that, his face keen with interest. "Now, can you say with absolute clarity that the timing was such?" Asked he.

"I should never forget such a thing, Holmes. Their final moments will forever be burned into my mind." Watson answered, causing the Detective to crack his eyes open a hair, tilting his head upwards in his peculiar fashion.

"Lovers dying two hours apart… are you positive that there was no dying lover's wish to go together through unnatural means?" Asked he.

"My dear Holmes, I know you to be thorough with your work, but they would not try such a thing! Even though they were very ill, the thought never crossed their minds, not once." Watson said firmly, sitting back in his chair for emphasis.

Something that Watson could not identify flashed over Holmes's face, but it vanished as fast as it came on, leaving Holmes once again to break the silence. "I apologise for my query, my dear Watson. Please, continue with your case." Said he, returning to his contemplation. Watson snorted into his cup, placing it down on the table beside him.

"Pray tell, are you going to make a note of this in your little book? Keep it on the record?" He asked.

"No, this affair shall be between us, and Mrs. Hudson, of course." Holmes responded, cracking his eyes open a little bit farther. "Provided the fact she is eavesdropping."

The floor outside their sitting room squeaked away in reckless abandon, as Watson cracked a faint smile. "I believe I am ready to tell you the rest, Holmes."

"The entire day, my brothers in medicine and myself have been working around the clock to treat their scarlet fever, as Miss Stockwell had picked it up from an unfortunate student of hers that we learned had gone utterly blind, and transferred it to her husband when he came home from his work as a cab driver. Husband and wife showed up on my doorstep yesterday; I called the reinforcements in at noon, as you know that scarlet fever transfers like wildfire."

"It is one of the worst illnesses that I have had the unfortunate luck in crossing paths within my profession." Holmes agreed though he sat forward, draping his arms around the sofa as if he were giving it a hug. "But what does this have to do with Fate, and if I believe in it?" He asked.

"As the young couple lay succumbing to their illness, I tried to give them anything that should ease their pain, as dying so young is an immense tragedy, but they refused. Instead, they held each other in their arms and talked about how it was Fate that they met, some three years ago in the springtime, and it should be Fate that they died in each other's arms, fitting for lovers. Much to our dismay, they did just that. Miss Stockwell died; first, her husband dying, as I have told you, exactly two hours and a quarter apart. As Mister Stockwell died, he said that Fate had surely guided him to this very moment with his wife."

"Holmes, I have been in medicine for many years. I may be more inclined to be superstitious, but… seeing a couple as young as that, pass in that manner, I am inclined to believe that Fate indeed had a guiding hand in their passing." Watson admitted.

"How old were they?" Holmes interjected.

"Young enough that I think that I was viewing my very past when I saw them die before me, Holmes. And I should wonder if it was Fate that guided Stamford to you and myself to bring us together or led me to wed my wife. This has made me second-guess a lot of things to-night." Watson said.

Holmes paused at the notion, grabbing the little book out of his coat pocket that he recorded all of his cases in. In particular, the case that Watson had dubbed to the public as 'A Study in Scarlet' was the first page he often opened to and re-read. It did seem to be a mere whim, a coincidence that Stamford had found him and Watson on the exact same day, in similar predicaments.

Perhaps…?

No. Fate was a ploy to get men to assume that there was something that strung them along. What they thought to be Fate was a chain of singular events leading them to a conclusion that they did not train themselves to see, Holmes had so often reasoned. That was all.

But did that explain that Watson met his wife in 'The Sign of the Four'?

After seeing the look of contemplation on Holmes's face, Watson resigned to the fact that he was being the emotional man that a perfect reasoning machine was not. "I apologize for disturbing you, my friend. I shall retire to my room for the night." He muttered, standing up from his seat.

Holmes startled out of his reverie, clapping his book shut. "No, no! Watson, you have not disturbed me in the slightest. Now come, I said I shall aid you in whatever way I can, and I intend to do that. Come, take my spot on the sofa." Said he, patting the fabric next to him.

As much as the Doctor wanted to retreat to his room, he was never in a position to tell Holmes 'no.' Was it a fault of his? Perhaps. Ambling over to the couch, Watson took up Holmes's old place on the sofa, lying prone with his fingers folded over his chest.

While Holmes could not bring himself to believe so candidly on one single instance that would make him question his beliefs on Fate, the Detective felt another pang in his chest, a warm feeling that seemed to arise whenever he was moved to protect his clients.

Watson was his client, he had declared. And Sherlock Holmes would show him the care he gave any of his other clients, he decided as he retreated to grab his violin from the far corner of the room.

Watson could not help but feel the slightest amusement as he lay on their couch. It was as if he were in 1888 once-

A soft, familiar melody floated through 221B Baker Street as Watson tried to finish his thought, Holmes's fingers elegantly weaving his bow across the violin strings in intense concentration.

Maybe it was 1888, Watson mused-or at least in some small capacity, Holmes sought to acknowledge that the Doctor was correct in his assumption about Fate, even if the Detective could not say it out loud.

But for Holmes, as he moved to observe Watson while playing that melody on his violin, a more welcome observation arose from the figure on the couch.

"Sleep well, my dear Watson." Holmes whispered as Watson fell asleep with the first genuine smile he had that night on his face.

Hopefully that wasn't terrible! That was my second attempt doing serious SH Fanfiction, and for some reason, my mind veered into angsty territory. Also, bonus points if you can guess the less overt references to other ACD stories! One of them is a reference to the fic I'm working on besides this, being 'A Treatise on Failure'. Second note, if it seems weird, it was a common Victorian Era practice and belief that dying that young was inherently the very essence of tragedy, so I tried to incorporate some of that into the story.

-In the Fields of Verdun