Author's Notes: Long time no see. Trying to shock myself back into gear, therefore, the drabbles/scenes are no longer in chronological order. This one is based during the Hiatus, where Watson has issues, and I may do a few followups, before returning to kitten-hood. Thank you to: Skizzorsaregangsta, Cat, Rhivanna, AmatorLinguae, Chewing Gum, Slightly Obssessive, Quickenmyend, Icebluehost, KCS and MJLS. Warning: dark themes.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes.

She was Jemima, a little girl who had sent my friend down that solitary path from where there was (how could there be) no return.

She was Holmes, taken by the cruel waters beyond where I could follow.

She was Mary, eyes already upon the next world even as I begged her to stay.

And there she stood, her warm body sending frissons of disgust through me as she rubbed against my legs. The warm and breathing presence, the dead eyes of Mary, the little girl in the attic, the bloated corpse of Holmes, flesh pounded and pounded and pounded away by the icy water.

And I throw her away, far away, and close the door on her fawning, on her desperate affection, the same affection that drew Holmes from his stupor, which made Mary's smile so bright. I watch the snow swirl past the window. Why, how the wind could cry and shriek in the bitter night! Sometimes it sounds like a cry, like a scream, like the wind itself rages at being locked out of the houses.

I stare at the firelight making patterns on the carpet, and think of dead things, of how it would be for water to lap against you, to swallow you up. How it would be for no one to ever find you, hidden, alone, too far away to reach, even if they lie on your bed, even if you hold their hand and call their name.

Dead things and ghosts and water lapping on the carpet, light sparking amber tones in the whisky on the table.

The blizzard swirls past, tricking the eyes, making shapes, faces, forms, the shadows of the people I had loved.

The wind raps at the windows, moaning to come inside.

Those shadow people, waiting for someone to open the door.

Holmes. Grey eyes warm with pleasure. Mary's bright red cheeks and playful smile.

Come out into the snow John.

Do come.

But there is no one, no one, only a muffled sob, of the lost, of the abandoned, a cold bundle of fur shivering on the stoop.

Wet and wretched and alone, betrayed by the one she trusted.

And I scoop her up and bring her out of the cold, wrap her in my coat, watch her glazed eyes reflect the fire.

And I weep for the first time, soaking her fur still further, huddled and rocking, we two lost and mortal things burning away the memories, filling our eyes with fire.

Any reviews or concrit will be appreciated (and marvelled at, because, come on, it's been like a year),

Thanks, Taluliaka.