The Death of Dr John Watson

by Pride of Ergastulum

After miraculously surviving the Reichenbach Falls and his mysterious return to London, Sherlock Holmes must now face a new mystery and do so alone following the death of his faithful friend, Dr John Watson. Even if the head of the snake was felled, old enemies still have their sights trained on Sherlock. Descriptions of death. May or may not get a follow up entry.

Sherlock Holmes was not a stranger to displays of emotions, what was less familiar to him was feeling such emotion himself. His assistant, no his friend, perhaps his only one now lay dead on the ground, his wife, Mrs Mary Watson, sobbing into his shirt, considerate of her to avoid contaminating the bullet hole in his skull.

"The coroner will take care of John," Inspector Lestrade placed a hand on the now stiff shoulder of the great detective, "I'll lead the investigation myself."

Sherlock laughed loudly, garnering a tearful glare from the recent widow, "If the investigation is left to you Lestrade, then John's killer won't be found until next century if at all." He retrieved the pipe from his pocket biting down on the wood, the tension in his jaw greater than usual, "Mary dear, if you could move out the way before any evidence is ruined otherwise it will be struggle for even I to find our dear John's killer."

"You are the most disagreeable man I have ever met, you abused John's friendship all throughout your time together," her auburn hair glinting in the fading light as she stood with poise that even royalty would fail to muster in the situation. It was with that same poise that she raised her hand and slapped him directly across his cheek, "find my husbands' killer, or it will be the last case the Great Detective takes on."

The smug smile on his face disappeared, "You can have the honour of opening the trapdoor when he faces the gallows, or in the unlikely event that I fail you can turn John's pistol on me," Sherlock didn't dare take her hand lest his other cheek bear a similar stinging sensation. While her technique had been rudimentary the force behind it was respectable. Now alone, for the first time he crouched by his friend's body, tender fingers moved the displaced strands of John's greying hair revealing the precise, clean edged bullet hole in Dr Watson's forehead. He did not need the lack of gun powder to tell him that it had been fired from a considerable distance, Sherlock had been in the room when the bullet had entered through the window. The shooter had already departed from the building opposite before he had gotten there. Sherlock moved to the window, carefully avoiding the small shards of glass littering the rug, in all fairness this case was rather straightforward.

The motive, rather petty and cliched, a servant avenging his master by inflicting the opposite wound on the offending party. The culprit; Sebastian Moran, former expert British Army marksman and the right hand man of Professor James Moriarty, the greatest criminal mastermind of the this generation. The opportunity, well any time John walked in the open air or stood in view of a window, though of course Moran would have taken on some of his late master's theatrical tendencies, killing him in front of the great Sherlock Holmes to create the most distress and rage to force a mistake. No, the mystery was not who John's killer was, or even how he accomplished it, the mystery was how Sherlock was going to apprehend him, as even without Professor Moriarty's considerable assets behind him, Sebastian Moran was a rather resourceful and slippery foe.

"My dear Watson the game is now afoot," Sherlock whispered holding the pipe in the corner of his mouth, his fingers lingered to ensure John's eyelids remained closed, before stalking out the door unsure if he would wish to set foot in his parlour ever again.