John used to wonder how "single" turns to "bachelor".
It took him a while to admit that it was an unfortunate factor of age, that "single" had connotations of being young and carefree, whereas "bachelor" denoted of "past the prime". He remembers when he first read that term associated with himself in the newspaper: "Bachelor John Watson". He'd read it a few times, pointed his finger accusingly at it, as if he could somehow intimidate the ink.
Then it seemed that before he could even get himself properly worked up about it, he met Mary Morstan. And just like that, the title no longer applied to him. Suddenly it was "Boyfriend John Watson", "Fiance", "Husband", "Father". He flit between the labels proudly. Even through the constant deceit, he never denounced his titles.
Now, he sits in their- in his flat, thinking. The rooms aren't dirty, but they're the bare minimum of clean. The curtains are only open halfway when they should be spread wide on this sunny day. He sits too-straight on the couch, watching his daughter lying before him on the floor, burbling happily on her play mat. He should be present in this moment, but one dark thought won't let him alone…
That once you become "Widower John Watson", you wish you could go back to being a bachelor.