Hey guys! So, here's the new chapter and I just wanted to say thanks to the 4 guests, Samayori and Weyhe - Thank you so much for the reviews! You are the reason why chapter 8 had been so much easier to write than chapter 7!

Chapter 8 – There's Always A Tomorrow

The moment the woman hurried over the street, watching him with guarded, worried eyes, clutching a narrow writing pad to her side and stealing furtive glance back to the mansion Helena lived, Sherlock knew for sure something had happened. Something he wouldn't like.

It was in the way she held herself, the way her eyes glisten, the way she clasped the notebook.

"Mister Holmes?" She asked again, her voice hushed. He nodded his affirmation. She smiled softly but there was no joy in it. It was a sad smile, it portrayed sorrow, grief and despair. Her whole hunched figure screamed loss and emptiness, her dark gray eyes seemed tired and looking closer he saw something akin to horror flicker across her old, wrinkled face.

His heart clenched at her sight and his mind went blank. Within a split second all his deductions about her (east-European, Rumanian to be specific, 69 years, lived in England since she was about twenty, married for forty years, widow since nine, almost ten. Still in black, still wearing her wedding band. Still loving her husband dearly. Been with the family since Helena was little, working as housekeeper and had grown close to her, seeing her as some kind of grand-daughter since her marriage hadn't been blessed with children – sadly, Sherlock could see she would have been a wonderful mother.) became unimportant and fleeting.

Something was wrong, so very, very wrong.

"Helena's father asked me to... clear out her room and sort the things for charity. I... I found this among her old school books. I didn't really read it, just skimmed across it. There are letters in there, all addressed to you so I figured she would want you to have them."

Sherlock just starred at her, eyes wide and unseeing. He didn't hear anything after that first sentence. He had never been slow, had never needed someone to repeat anything for him but right now he couldn't wrap his mind about the meaning of the sentence he had just heard.

The old woman looked at him, holding something out for him, offering a small, tender smile.

"Excuse me – clear out her room? Sort her things for charity? What are you talking about?"

The woman's face contracted in pain like he had struck her. Her eyes glazed over and for a moment he feared she might start to cry. But she regained her composure and suddenly he detected pity in her gaze. His heart clenched again. What was going on – what was happening here? He kept missing something, something important, but what?

A cold feeling settled into his stomach.

"I'm sorry, I thought you have been told... Helena, she died this morning. Her head injury was to severe, she never regained consciousness."

For a moment it seemed like his heart just stopped and he felt himself suffocating. What did she mean – Helena died? It felt like a blow in the stomach. She died? He heard the woman talking to him but couldn't make out her words over the roaring of his blood in his ears. Helena was dead? A sharp intake of breath. She died in the morning? Because of her head injury? Never regaining consciousness?

The woman's voice cut through his foggy mind, talking to him still. He starred at her, his eyes coming back into focus again and zooming in on her.

"...so I thought I should give it to you." She stopped speaking and watched him expectantly. He just looked at her and then took the writing pad she offered at him.

"Do you know when the funeral is held?" He wanted to know. She nodded. "Next Sunday, Saint Mary's Cathedral, 9 am. The wake is on Saturday, 7 pm, also in Saint Mary's." She smiled softly, nodding again and turned to leave. Sherlock let his pale eyes follow her, studying the walk of the elderly woman, how she seemed to slow down, how her shoulders sagged, how she was more hunched when she neared the other mansion. He remembered her words, that Helena's father had her clear out the room and apparently she resented her task.

Obviously her father wanted to get rid of Helena and her memory as fast as possible. He examined the writing pad in his hand. It looked exactly like the ones he used for school, inconspicuous. Slowly he wandered up to his father's house and without making his customary stop in the kitchen to say his hello to Mary.

With a heavy sigh he slumped down at his bed and tried to get comfortable laying on his stomach., Resting his head on his arm, he was starring into space and thinking. Helena was dead. He was surprised at his own reaction, he had almost panicked after their housekeeper told him. Honestly, he liked her... had liked her, but to be so shocked, so lost – even if it had subsided thankfully fast – that just wasn't him. There was still the cold, hard feeling in his stomach and he wasn't sure what to make of it. He didn't do sentiment, yet now he didn't seem to be able to get rid of it. At least not all of it. The overwhelming angst and grief he felt on the street was gone, pushed back into whatever dark vault of his mind palace it had escaped from.

Another deep-drawn sigh and he shifted to get the notebook in front of him to see why it had been given to him. A small envelope fell out. The long, spidery handwriting on the front said his name. Curious he broke the seal on it and snatched a paper out.

Dear Sherlock

It might seem strange for me to write this letter to you, but I don't know who else might be interested. Maybe "interested" is the wrong word but frankly, I'm not fussed about it.

You know, I think after the first month or so, you started to care about me. Maybe just a little – but you cared enough to wait for me. You cared enough to not talk to me after I embarrassed myself in front of you because of my cowering. You cared enough to wait until the panic subsided. You cared enough to call child services. Don't deny it, I know it was you. Who else could've been it? None knew – just you.

It isn't your fault they didn't help. And it isn't your fault he went crazy afterwards. I know you thought it was. Maybe I should've told you you were wrong. But how could I tell you? I would have admitted that there was something happening. I know you know – you knew it probably the moment you first saw me. However you manage things like this is beyond me – although it really fascinates me. But then – you probably knew that as well.

However, as I said, you might wonder why I write my suicide note to you.

Yes.

Sherlock, this is my suicide letter. I didn't know to whom to write, I don't have many friends, you see. I have colleges, acquaintances, people I know, people I smile at. But none of them know me the way you do.

Please, forgive me my selfishness. I know I have no right to load this – whatever this is – upon you. Believe me, I never wanted to be a burden to anyone, least of all to you. And yet here I find myself, writing to you instead of going quietly. Why is it I find myself unable to go without any complaint?

Maybe it's human vanity. I don't want to leave this world without leaving something behind. Even if it's just this letter.

You know, there have been days when I thought everything will just be ok. I'm going to be ok. But I guess that's over now, don't you think?

I like you, Sherlock. I really do.

Don't ask me why, God knows you did everything you could to dissuade me from this emotion. Yet... I can't change it.

Be careful, Sherlock. You told me once to not only see but to observe. I did. I see you're hurt. I see the flash of pain in your eyes when they call you names. When they call you freak, fag or what else they come up with. I see how you detach yourself from reality. I see how you hold yourself when your father hit you again.

Don't be surprised, Sherlock. Of course I knew. How could I not? It takes a liar to know one.

Don't let them kill you. Please. Don't be as weak as I am. Be strong, for both of us.

And don't forget me, will you? Remember me when I'm nothing more than a black stone on the cemetery. If you think of me sometimes and I can be a little twitch in your heart, that's enough for me.

Sincerely, Helena

For the first second he was just shocked. This was it then? Could he have been so very, very wrong? Did she commit suicide after all? He reread the damn letter three times, until he looked at the date. 18Th of December. Nearly a year before now. So... she had written her suicide note to him the last time – how come he didn't got it? He never knew she had tried to commit suicide before he visited her in the hospital nearly a week ago.

And not only that – she had known about the child services and his father. Guess she was more observant than he gave her credit for. It was strange to read about it now, to know she had survived her attempt but was dead now anyway. It made the cold hard chunk in his abdomen hurt even more. What was that? He just didn't understand...

Slowly he opened the writing pad, revealing the first page - it was another letter.

Dear Sherlock

Well, as you can see now I didn't even manage to off myself. I fucked up. Royally. And right now I'm in a nuthouse. Isn't that great?

Okay, that wasn't the way I wanted to start my letter. But really... The therapists made me write this one. Said that we (meaning me and the other patients) hurt other people with our actions and that we should apologize. Since you're the only one who I imagine would be hurt (I actually think my father is sad I didn't succeed in killing myself...), I decided to apologize to you.

Gladly we don't need to send this letter, and none besides ourselves will read it.

As far as I know you didn't receive my suicide note, did you? Otherwise you would have called me by now. Told me how pathetic and sordid I was. Actually, that's what I keep telling myself. Honestly, I don't even know how you would react. Better not to descry. I would be lying when I say I'm not happy that you didn't get my note... It was rather... whiny, now that I think about it.

I didn't reread it (and God help me, I never will. I would be thoroughly embarrassed if I had to) but as much as I can remember... well, let's say I'm rather glad you didn't have to read it.

Whatever.

I really don't know what to write, I mean I know its part of therapy to apologize, but really, what for? It's not like you will ever know what happened, I can imagine that conversation or wait, maybe I don't need to.

As far as I know you would be aware that I was stupid enough to overdose on painkillers the moment you see me. One glance and you could probably tell me the brand of whisky I used to wash them down with. (Chivas Regal, by the way, just if you wondered. I bet that will earn me a good trashing, it was rather expensive. Although I don't get why, it tasted awful.)

I ramble. They told us to write at least a page...

I guess I could tell you about the patients in here. You would have a field day deducing everyone. Nevertheless it feels like I'm betraying them even by only describing them...

I would like to know when I'm able to leave the hospital again. I'm ok so far besides having a touchy stomach but I think that's to be expected after one and a half packages of aspirin and nearly a whole bottle of whisky. Honestly I didn't expect to stay here that long, I did underestimate my father's joy because I'm out of his hair. But I don't think I'm going to miss more than a week of university, at the most two weeks. I hope he'll get me out of here before holidays are over.

Ok, my page is done by now. Bye, Sherlock. Thanks for listening to my ramble for a while ^^

(Yeah, I know you'll never read this, but whatever)

Sincerely, Helena

Well. He didn't expected this. So she never intended for him to know. And yet she had written not only her suicide note but also this apology-letter to him. His suspicions that her father had his hand in her fake suicide grew stronger and stronger. Frowning, he continued reading. Letter after letter and soon he recognized it as some kind of diary. It was strange but it felt like spying on her, although these letters all were addressed to him.

The length of the entries differed between a few sentences and one-to-two pages. Gradually they became lighter and Sherlock knew that had to be after her meds had kicked in. In the middle of February she seemed to be happy, she wrote regularly about an internship she did in a local youth center and how much she enjoyed being of help to the kids there. Her letters now ended with "Love, Helena" instead of the more formal endings she used before.

Reading through nearly a year of the life of another human being was rather weird but he couldn't help himself, he had to know more. Sometimes there was the mentioning of another female, Janine, who seemed to be with Helena's father. Those letters were always short and somehow filled with resentment although Helena never clearly said that she didn't like the woman. The mystery about her mother was also lifted: when she "introduced" Janine, Helena explained that her mother had indeed left the family when she was 11 years old because she had been pregnant with another man's child and had wanted to start a family with him. To say Sherlock was surprised would have been an understatement. But then, he already knew most humans were selfish, ignorant bastards. Turned out, Helena's mother was one of them after all.

The cold clump in his stomach grew a little bit when he thought of the girl Helena had been and the mother who just had walked out on her. And suddenly, he didn't want to be alone anymore, it was just too much.

It took him only seconds to call a cab and only ten minutes until it was here. Thankfully he had memorized John's address quite some time ago. Half an hour later he was standing in front of a huge but rather shabby apartment house and pressed the doorbell with the name tag "Watson, H."

John had been reading for an assignment he had to complete when the doorbell rang. He hopped from the bed, pencil still in hand, to answer the bell since he was alone at home. The door opened up to reveal the lanky figure of Sherlock. One gaze and John knew something had happened. He had never seen the genius to look so utterly lost.

"Sherlock? What happened?"

It took a moment or two until Sherlock's pale eyes focused on him.

"She's dead, John. She died this morning." He said quietly.

"What? Who? Helena?"

Sherlock just nodded and John grabbed his arm and guided him into the small four-room flat. He led him through the kitchen/living room into the bigger of the two bedrooms, which had once been occupied by Harry and was now John's.

"Sit down." He gestured at his bed, covered in books and papers from school. With one swift motion he captured most of them and put them on his bedside table – right on his own anti – depressants – with the – maybe naive – hope Sherlock won't see them.

"I'll go get some tea. It'll only be a sec." With that, he left the lanky genius alone in his room, still starring into space.

John took his time preparing tea. So, Helena was dead. A strange, cold feeling settled in his belly. He hadn't lied to his therapist, he didn't know her very well. But from what he had seen, she had been a kind, tender soul and had proven heavenly patience when she befriended Sherlock. And now, she was gone. And Sherlock seemed to be so utterly lost because of it, his heart clenched at the thought. That look in his eyes when John had opened the door of the apartment... He hoped he would never ever see it on Sherlock again.

By the time he returned to his guest, Sherlock had had time to regain his composure. The carefully blank mask had been replaced and he was gazing out of window.

John sat down next to him, handing him a steaming mug of Darjeeling tea with a dash milk, just the way he knew Sherlock liked it. Then they sat in silence, sipping their tea and watching the blue sky of a moderately warm, late indian summer day. They never said a word, but somehow they both knew their presence was just enough. Enough to become calm. Enough to keep despair at bay. Just enough to go on.

Thank you so much for reading and I hope you'll let me know what you think about it? Comments are treasured and loved ^^

Countess