Part II: Found

Sherlock Holmes was bored.

This, unfortunately, was a rather common occurrence- it happened after long periods when Lestrade or any of the inspectors from the ridiculously boring and predictable Scotland Yard failed to bring a new case to his attention for some period of time.

He had just moved into 221B Baker Street on Wednesday, where the landlady, a woman named Mrs. Martha Hudson, had given him a special discount, seeing as he previously ensured the execution of her former husband in Florida. This was, as she repeatedly stated as she ushered him into his new flat and with a tin of biscuits, the least she could do to repay him.

As Sherlock laid in an armchair that Friday, hands arranged in an almost prayerful position, his mobile buzzed.

Found a case that you may be interested in. Pop in when you've got a minute -GL.

Sherlock scoffed at the text. Clearly, Graham or George or whatever his name was didn't understand that Sherlock never could "pop in", seeing as he had more interesting things to do.

Sherlock intently scanned the mobile, but then took a closer look at the text itself.

A case?

Realizing that his boredom was a more pressing issue rather than if Lestrade would cater to his direct wishes or not, Sherlock thumbed a quick reply, then threw the phone beside him, awaiting a reply.

What's the case about? -SH

In a matter of seconds, Lestrade had responded.

Suicide of a man. We need to determine who he was and a possible motive for the death. -GL.

One of those poison suicides? -SH

No. There was a gun involved. -GL

I'll be there in a few. Don't let any of your idiots touch anything. -SH

Where's the location? -SH

Westminster. -GL

Lestrade sent an address of a hotel, which Sherlock gave to the cabbie as he stepped into a sleek taxi, pulling his blue scarf around his neck.

"When did you find out about the suicide?" Sherlock questioned, sweeping his black Belstaff out of the victim's way.

Lestrade looked in his direction, away from some of his other officers that were desperately trying to grab his attention. "Uh, probably 'round 7:30 this morning. I think it's about... 11:00 now."

Accepting this, Sherlock pushed Anderson out of the way of his view of the body and began his round of observations.

-It's been about 3.5 hours, the blood has dried as normal.

-Gun is positioned near victim's hand: most likely a suicide.

-The shot from the gun was precise: he was familiar with a gun.

-Hair is buzzed military-style, so this man just recently returned from serving in the military.

-Tanned face but no tan above anywhere above the wrists. Conclusion: he's been abroad extremely recently, but not sunbathing. Most likely Iraq or Afghanistan, then.

-Probably a doctor or well trained health professional as there is no indication of drug use or smoking around hotel or in rucksack. A medical professional who could shoot a gun who was in the military in Afghanistan or Iraq? Aha. Army doctor, then.

-Was in good health prior to suicide. Clearly, then, he wasn't influenced by drugs.

He completed a few more deductions and was beginning to stand up and give Gavin the results, but Donovan passed near him, intentionally shoving against Sherlock's shoulder.

"You missed something, Freak," she called, holding up a small and neatly folded piece of paper.

Sherlock hid the slight offence that irritatingly came whenever she called him Freak and deftly snatched the sheet out of her hand. He looked at the four sentences written (rather hurriedly, if the handwriting gave any indication) upon it.

My name was John Watson.

But I have had too much.

I am no more.

John Watson is no more.

Considering this, Sherlock folded the note into its original position and snapped his fingers in Lestrade's face to get his attention.

"Pay attention, Lestrade, I'm not going to repeat this again. John Watson was recently invalidated from Afghanistan or Iraq- either one, doesn't matter, he's clearly been abroad but not for a vacation. He used to be an army doctor, seeing as he was in pretty good health, showing that he knew how to keep himself healthy, and the gunshot was precise- the man was good with firearms. Ties in with him being abroad recently and completely supports his haircut. No drugs were used in this case, and he wasn't a smoker either, judging by his fingers."

"And why did he kill himself?" prompted Lestrade.

Sherlock waved the note in Lestrade's face. "He probably felt too much guilt over the deaths that he may have been responsible for or the lives that he may have failed to save. Too much? No more? Seemed like an indicator for seeing and mentally feeling responsible for deaths as a doctor. No close family or friends as he seemed to be alone. Why else would he be inside a dingy hotel like this? If he had someone that he was close to, he would have gone to their place instead- either that, or they would have provided him with financial support. There. Case solved."

Sherlock turned to exit the doorway, but then poked his head back into the hotel room. "Oh, and Lestrade, do bring the body to St. Bart's. I think that their pathologist will be useful in assisting me with disposing of it."

"What do you make of it, Molly?" Sherlock asked, staring intently at the petite pathologist.

Honestly, he was waiting for her to turn to him and blush, perhaps, but she simply stated in a rather flat tone, "What was his name, again?"

"Erm..." He racked his brain, trying to recall it. "John? Yes, John Watson."

Her face crumpled, and when she spoke (which wasn't for a few minutes), it was in a sad, soft, and reverent tone.

"I knew him, once."

Whatever Sherlock had expected, it certainly wasn't this.

"And…?" he said, rather curiously.

"We attended the same university together- here at Bart's. He was only a year ahead of my graduating class. I… I remember John. He always assisted me in my med work. Never heard anything of him after he graduated, but he did tell me and another friend of ours that he wanted to go in the military as a doctor. That he wanted to save people."

Molly stared at the dead man's face, lost in memories. Sherlock nearly asked if she was in a relationship with John, but caught himself as he looked at her body language. Friends, then. Just friends.

"But it seems as if he couldn't save himself," she finished, voice dropping off at the last syllable.

Sherlock wasn't quite sure what to say- how could he? He definitely wasn't the best individual to deal with human emotions. But Molly was sad, he could tell. The death of this Watson, whoever he was, had deeply affected her. His almost-friend relationship with her told his mind that he should do something- anything- to comfort Molly. And in doing this, he thought, I should probably show some kind of respect to the former soldier.

So the detective and pathologist stood together, with the doctor leaning her head gently against the consulting detective's shoulder, keeping a reverent silence as they both gazed at the body of the soldier who fought a war that raged both outside and within.

John Watson, M.D.

1977-2010

Trop et pas plus, mes amis

A/N: This was born out of something that Traveler Of Many Lands tried to create for me for my birthday. However, I found it to be too depressing at the time. But now, I wanted something sad, so I wrote something sad! Go Maia!

So if you liked it (or not), please favorite, follow, and review! Reviews make me happy and are always appreciated.

*French for Too much and no more, my friends.