I usually do this at the end but I decided to do this at the beginning because…yeah. This was harder to write then expected. I guess when you've created something and you have to pull it apart…GAH NEVERMIND!

First off, THIS IS NOT THE LAST CHAPTER. I do have a tad more to write with this story and I am working on a reunion fic. I have not decided yet if I'll include that in this story or make it separate. Thoughts?

Thank you all for the wonderful responses about the last chapter (the wonderful Guest who keeps leaving suggestions, I wish I could tell you how much they are appreciated :)). It made me want to make this one the best I could possibly write. I tried to not let you guys down. This is a long one and I hope it's worth the read. :)

I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.

Much love and many thanks

Chapter 8: Solve This

"Where are we going to put the crib?"

"Bedroom."

"Our bedroom?"

"Mhm."
"You sure about that?"

"Of course, why wouldn't I be?"

"Something about you, a crying newborn and waking up at ungodly hours of the night doesn't seem to fit together, Sherlock."

My husband chuckles and bounces the rubber ball back to me. We've been playing our little game of catch for who knows how long, chatting about pretty much anything but the issue at hand. Sherlock explained to me how Moriarty used a computer code to become this Richard Brook: an actor Sherlock hired to be Moriarty just so he could come off as a genius. Moriarty had received private information about Sherlock through some source and used that to make his story appear as the truth: Hiding a lie amongst, facts. Clever, genius even, but nonetheless wrong.

Of course, my mind is filled with all sorts of questions but I don't want to ask them. Right now, I'm perfectly content with just sitting here with Sherlock, not at all focused on Moriarty. It feels like we're waiting around for something to happen, but to be honest, I'm not entirely sure what that would be: For John to arrive, maybe? Sherlock did text him not to long ago telling him where we are. Where did John go, for that matter?

"Sherlock," I say, bouncing the ball back to him, "I know you already suggested a boy's name, but what about if it's a girl?"

"It's a boy." He replies with a smirk.

"Okay, honey, I know that you are a super genius and what not, but you can't possibly know the sex of our child yet." I say.

"There's a high probability of it being a boy," he goes on, "For multiple generations, my family has had just boys. Take Mycroft and I for instance; we are our parent's only children and my father's parents had just boys and their parents before them and etc."

"That's just coincidence."

"Nope, my money is on our child being a boy."

"Okay, fine, but can we at least pick out a girl name just to be safe? Call it a back up plan."

"I don't do 'back up plans'. I'm right."

I playfully roll my eyes and catch the rubber ball: "You're so stubborn." I mutter under my breath. Sherlock smiles at me and leans in close so that our lips meet for a soft kiss. Just then, the doors to the lab open and John quickly walks in. Relieved to see that he's okay as well, I quickly get up and give him a warm hug: "Glad you're alright, John."

"Thanks. How are you feeling?" he asks, hugging me back.

"Fine. Just some craps."

"That's normal for this stage. You really should be resting; you've got to keep energy up for two, now."

"Yes, thank you Doctor Watson, but I don't need a babysitter."

We look at each other and laugh. I think that's what he needed right now. he looks more stressed then Sherlock does. That's the thing about John Watson, though; he cares about his friends more than anything else in the world, especially Sherlock.

"Glad you turned up." Sherlock says, tossing the rubber ball against the cabinets in front of him, without even looking toward John.

John gives me a sort of 'is he alright' look and I nod. He gives me a friendly pat on my shoulders then turns his attention to his best friend: "Got your message."

Sherlock catches the ball and holds on to it tightly: "The computer code is key to this. If we find it, we can use it – beat Moriarty at his own game."

"What do you mean, 'use it'?" John asks

"He used it to create a false identity, so we can use it to break into the records and destroy Richard Brook."

"And bring back Jim Moriarty again." John and I say at the same time.

Sherlock gives us both a sort of proud smirk and jumps up from his sitting position: "Somewhere in 221B, somewhere–on the day of the verdict–he left it hidden." He then turns and faces the lab bench, leaning forward with both hands on the work surface and staring ahead deep in thought. John walks to one side and stands beside him, unconsciously mimicking his stance, and I take the other. The three of us just stare and think.

Where would he have left it?

What would it look like?

Would it be in plain sight?

"What did he touch?" John asks

"An apple." Sherlock replies, "Nothing else."

"Did he write anything down?" John tries again.

"No." Sherlock says, half-heartedly. John sighs in annoyance then taps his fingers on the bench before turning around to the other lab bench. Sherlock straightens up slightly and slowly mimics John's tapping. I can see in his eyes that he's hit some sort of realization.

"Figured something out?" I ask, gently setting a hand on his arm. He doesn't respond. He just keeps tapping and staring blankly ahead. "Sherlock, love, are you alright?"

Sherlock straightens his back and gives off a heavy sigh: "Fine." He breathes out, "Just…give me a minuet, darling." He then turns his back on me and pulls out his phone. Seeing that he needs privacy for the moment-probably slipping into the mind palace-I join John at the other lab bench.

"I'm assuming he filled you in on everything?" John asks me in a low voice so that Sherlock doesn't over hear him.

"Yeah," I say with a nod, "it's insane, isn't it? I mean we knew that Moriarty would do anything to break Sherlock, but this is extreme. Where did he get the information? Surely not from just some random person." John looks down at his feet and clenches his fists. Furrowing my brow in confusion, I set a comforting hand on his shoulder: "What is it, John? Do you…know something?"

"It was Mycroft." He whispers, "Fee, it was Mycroft who told Moriarty all of those things in exchange for information. He…he told me."
"What?" I breathe out in disbelief, "Sherlock's own brother? I know they don't get along, but come on!"

"Shh, keep your voice down." John whispers, putting an arm around my shoulders and pulling me in close He looks back at Sherlock, still deep in his mind palace, then back at me; "We can't let Sherlock know," he goes on, "Like you said, he and Mycroft don't get along, but this is beyond sibling rivalry. Hearing that his own flesh and blood betrayed him might send Sherlock over the edge and…we need to keep him focused on solving this."

"I agree," I reply, "this is already been to much for him. Best not to burden him more."

John nods and gives me a friendly side hug; "You're strong, Elfie." He says, "What with the pregnancy and all of this happening at the same time, most people would be having a mental break down right about now."
"Well, I can't afford to have one," I reply with a chuckle, "He needs me, John. He'll put on a strong front, but I know in my heart that he's reached his limit." I then look back at my husband and smile; "His work means everything to him, John, and that can't be taken away from him."

"That's not entirely true." John points out, "He is devoted to you. Sure, he'll always be the worlds only consulting detective, but-now, don't tell him I told you this-at his heart he's your husband. That's a title, I truly believe, that he is most proud of."

My cheeks turn a bright shade of pink and look back at John: "Thank you," I say, giving him a friendly hug, "you are too kind, John Watson." John just chuckles and returns the gesture.

"Elfie, I need you." Sherlock quickly says, taking a seat in one of the chairs. John and I part and I go back to Sherlock's side.

"What is it?" I ask, "What can I do to help?"

Sherlock smiles at me then leans back; "Come here," He whispers, gently tapping his lap. Glad to oblige, I climb into his lap and nuzzle up to him, resting my head on his shoulder. Sherlock wraps his arms around me and runs his hand through my hair.

"We're going to be okay, Sherlock." I say, fiddling with the buttons on his shirt, "You'll solve this and we can get back to our lives."

"I know we will," he whispers in reply, "It…it'll all be over soon."

I place a soft kiss on his neck and shut my eyes for just a moment. I feel so relaxed and safe in his arms, just like everything around us is perfectly fine. Allowing tiredness to take over, I cuddle up close to my husband and begin to drift off to sleep. His strokes in my hair become more rhythmic as he starts to hum a soft tune, almost like a lullaby. Despite my fatigue, I immediately recognize it:

"You're humming our song," I whisper, lifting my head slightly to look at him with half opened eyes, "Moon River"

"Of course," he replies, stroking my cheek, "it is, as you put, our song." He smiles back at me but then his expression becomes very stern. There's sadness in his eyes, almost like he's made some sort of choice that he immediately regrets. "Elfie," he says, "will you…Promise me that you'll sing it our child, yes? It'll be a lullaby, of sorts, every night, so that it will become their song too. Will you do that for me?"

"Sherlock," I say, hooking my hand gently around his neck, "of course I will. But I don't have to be the only one to sing it to him, you can sing it too."

He smiles at me and nuzzles his forehead against my own: "You called the baby 'him'." He whispers, "So you admit that it's a boy?"

"Slip of the tongue," I tease, rubbing my free hand on his chest. Sherlock gives off that deep baritone chuckle that I love so much and we kiss. To my surprise, Sherlock deepens the kiss almost like he's never wanted to kiss me more then like he does right now. I return the passion and when our lips finally part, I look into those beautiful sea foam eyes: "That was…"

"Shh," Sherlock whispers, setting a soft finger to my lips, "no more talk. It's late and, as John stated before, you need to save your energy." He then rests my head against his shoulder: "Go to sleep, my darling, darling, girl." He coos, returning to stroking my hair, "I'll be here when you wake up."

"I wasn't expecting you to leave." I mumble, letting sleep over take me again, "Where were you planning on going?"

"Nowhere, darling," he whispers, placing a soft kiss on top of my head, "Nowhere at all."

0o0o00o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Hours later, I slowly blink my eyes open and let out a soft yawn. God what time is it? I feel like I've slept for ages. Coming to my senses, I realize that my body is covered by something; it's thick, comforting…Sherlock's coat. I contently sigh and pull it closer to my body. Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock can be quiet the romancer. I then turn my head to get awareness of my surrounding; still in the lab, of course, I would remember going home. John has fallen asleep at the other lab bench with his head resting atop his folded arms. Good, he needed to rest.

"Good morning," That all too familiar baritone tone says. Realizing that I'm still in his comforting hold, I smile and lift my head from my husband's shoulder. He smiles back at me, but I can tell that he's tired and worn down.

"Did you get some sleep?" I yawn, "You look exhausted."

Sherlock just shakes his head; "No, not a wink. I just wanted to watch over you."

"That's romantic, but a bit odd, I must admit." I tease.

"How so?" he asks, stroking my cheek, "I only wanted to have the perfect image of you when I…" He quickly stops and looks away; "I mean…you look breathtakingly beautiful when you're sleeping. In fact, you…you always look beautiful to me."

I chuckle slightly and gaze into his eyes. There's something different about him right now. It's like there's some dark secret hiding behind those eyes. And he sounds so…sad. What is going on? Did something happen while I was sleeping? Before I can ask what the matter is, John's cell phone goes off. Both Sherlock and I turn our attention to the groaning, awakening doctor as he raises his head and answers it:

"Yeah," he groans, "speaking." Suddenly his eyes widen with shock: "Er, what?" he exclaims, now fully awake, "What happened? Is she okay? ...Oh my God. Right, yes, I'm coming."

"What is it?" Sherlock asks, adjusting his hold on my waist so that I can sit up straight, his voice very straightforward.

"Paramedics." John replies, franticly, "Mrs. Hudson…she's been shot."

"Oh my God!" I breathe out, placing a hand on my fast beating heart.

"What? How?" Sherlock asks, but not at all sounding worried. Seriously, this woman is practically his mother. He should show some sort of emotion.

"Well, probably one of the killers you managed to attract" John says with a worried tone, "Jesus, Jesus! She's dying, Sherlock. Let's go." I quickly jump out of Sherlock's lap, set the coat on the lab bench and head toward the door with John. My mind is spinning; how the hell could this have happened? I thought those assassins were just there for Sherlock. Would one of them really hurt Mrs. Hudson? What could she have done to make this happen?

Suddenly, my husband says something that stops John and I dead in our tracks:

"You go. I'm busy."

John and I look at one another then turn back towards Sherlock, both of us looking at him appalled.

"Busy?" John asks as if to wrap his head around what Sherlock has just said.

"Thinking. I need to think." Sherlock replies, gazing off into the distance and not giving a care in the world. Okay, something is seriously wrong? This isn't my Sherlock.

"You need to...? Doesn't she mean anything to you?" John exclaims, "You once half killed a man because he laid a finger on her."

"She's my landlady." Sherlock brushes it aside.

"Sherlock, you can't be serious!" I say in disbelief. He turns his head and locks eyes with me. There's a sudden lump in my throat; he really isn't coming. He really is just going to sit here. No, something is wrong, something has to be wrong. Why is he acting like this?

"She's dying...You machine!" John practically shouts,

"John," I whisper, setting a hand on his elbow and trying to make him notice what I do, "I think something's up."

"No, you know what? Sod this." He says, shaking his head in frustration and disbelief, "Sod this. You stay here if you want, Sherlock, on your own."

"Alone is what I have." Sherlock states in a monotone, "Alone protects me."

"No. Friends protect people." John bites back, "Come on, Elfie."

"I'll be right behind you." I tell him, walking toward Sherlock.

"Fee!" John exclaims

"I'm coming John, just give me a second." I practically snap. John shakes his head then storms out of the lab.

"You should go with him," Sherlock states, fiddling with his phone.

"Not until I find out what the hell is going on with you right now?" I say, finally letting my frustration show toward him, "Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson is family to you! She's always treated us as if we were here own. Why are you being so cold?"

"I said I'm busy." He replies, not daring to make eye contact with me, "And if she cares that much to you, then I suggest you get going. Don't want to be too late now, do we?"
"Sherlock Holmes, how the hell could you say such a thing? Tell me what is going on!"

"Nothing."

"Sherlock..."

"I said nothing, now go. John will be waiting."

"I'm not leaving until you tell me what is going on."

"Elfie, I have to do this alone!" Sherlock suddenly exclaims, "I can't have you around right now so please just go with John and get as far away from this hospital as you can!"

I take in a sharp breath and stare at him bewildered; I've never heard him raise his voice like that before. It wasn't out of anger, but more like compassion. But what does he have to do alone? Why do I need to go far away?

Sherlock closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath: "I know this doesn't make sense right now," he says, "but I need you to trust me, Elfie Marie Holmes. I love you and I need to keep you and our child safe. To do that, I have to solve this case. Please, will you just trust me and go?"
"Sherlock, I…" I begin but he quickly lifts a hand up to silence me.

He opens his eyes and stares at me like a pleading child: "Please just trust me." He whispers.

I gaze back into those perfect eyes and cup his face in my hands: "Solve this, Sherlock." I whisper, nuzzling my forehead against his, "Please. Solve this, no matter the cost, and come home to me, alright?"

Sherlock nods and quickly pulls me in for a passionate kiss. I kiss him in return and run my fingers through those amazing curls. "Solve this." I whisper when our lips part, "I love you, my brilliant genius."

"I love you, my darling, darling, girl." He replies with the deepest sincerity I have ever heard him speak with, "Now, go."

I place another peck on his forehead then dash out of the lab. He better know what he's doing, my Sherlock. I can't imagine what would happen if Mrs. Hudson were too seriously injured and he wasn't there to help. I catch up with John outside just as he's hailed a cab.

"Ah, did you manage to get the bastard to talk?" John asks, opening the door for me, "I can't believe him, right now."

"He's fine." I say as we get inside the car, "And I'd kind of appreciate it if you didn't call my husband a bastard in front of me, John."

"Sorry," he grumbles. He shuts the door and turns his attention to the cabbie: "221b Baker Street. Quick as you can, please."

"…But you are right though." I say once we are on our way. John looks at me with a raised eyebrow. "Sherlock is a bastard." I reply with a small smirk, "I just wish this whole thing will go away."

"Me too, Fee," John replies, giving me a side hug, "me too."

About 15 minutes later, the cab pulls up in front of our flat. John pays the driver and we quickly sprint out the car. I immediately notice the fact that there is no ambulance or any sort of chaos that comes along with a shooting. If it were the paramedics that called John, wouldn't they still be here?

We jet through the front door-which is open for a construction worker that is working on the walls-and stop dead in our tracks at the sight before us. Mrs. Hudson, cheerful as ever, is standing beside the construction worker on his stepladder, watching him drill a hole.

"Mrs. Hudson?" I ask, furrowing my brow in confusion. Mrs. Hudson turns her head at the sound of my voice and steps back a little.

"Oh, God, you two!" she exclaims with a laugh, "You made me jump!"

"But..." John stutters in confusion.

"Is everything okay now with the police?" she goes on in her motherly manner, "Has, um, Sherlock sorted it all out?"

John and I look at one another for some sort of an answer; we're both at a complete loss here. We thought she was hurt, but she's perfectly fine. Why would someone call and tell John otherwise? Who?

Oh my God.

My eyes grow wide and John gives off a shaky sigh. The same realization dawns on us: Moriarty.

"Oh my God." John breathes out,

"Sherlock," I whisper becoming immediately worried, "He's…he's all alone. God, John, we have to go back." John shakes his head then dashes out of the flat. I quickly follow him, leaving poor Mrs. Hudson utterly confused.

"Taxi!" John yells, flagging one down across the street. I catch up with him just before he steps inside the cab. I start to follow him in, but John suddenly stops and faces me; "Stay here." He says in his captain's voice.

"Like hell, John," I reply, "I'm coming with you."

"No, no, listen to me, Fee." He says, grabbing my arms, "You need to stay here and watch out for Mrs. Hudson, just incase something does happen to her. Plus, you're pregnant and I don't know what's going to happen."

Knowing that he's right, I get out of the cab. Before the car leaves, thought, I poke my head into the back: "Keep Sherlock safe, John." I say, "Bring him home to me."

"You got it." John says with a nod. I slam the car door shut and the cab speeds off. I watch it go until it is completely out of sight, then head back to 221b.

"Everything alright dear?" Mrs. Hudson asks once I'm back inside, "You gave me quite a fright when you weren't here this morning."

"Um, I…I wish I could give you a straight answer, Mrs. Hudson." I say, running a hand through my hair, "Honestly." Suddenly, I feel a surge of nausea in my stomach. Oh God, morning sickness. I quickly wrap an arm around my middle and grab hold of the banister of the staircase for balance.

"Oh, you poor dear," Mrs. Hudson coos, "you head upstairs and make yourself comfortable. I'll bring you up a cuppa. Would you like one, Sebastian? I am saying that correctly, yes?"

"That would be lovely thank you, miss." The construction worker replies.

"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson." I groan heading up the stairs. I do feel bad for leaving her downstairs with that construction worker (apparently his name's Sebastian), but this pain is too much to handle right now.

As soon as I reach the living room, I kick off my shoes, remove my sweater and toss it aside. I spot Sherlock's blue dressing gown neatly draped across his desk chair- Mrs. Hudson must have come up to do some laundry. Smiling, I put it on and plop down on the couch. The flat is too quiet, well, accept for the drilling downstairs, but that's not what I mean. Things just don't feel complete when it's just me in the flat. God, I hope Sherlock's okay and John got there in time. I hate that we left him alone. What am I thinking? Everything is going to be fine. It always is…and always will be.

"Well, I guess it's just you and me." I mutter, rubbing my stomach, "Not that you can hear me…because you're not a 'you' yet-Not that I don't consider you a 'you', I just…Oh God, this is harder then I thought." I look up at the ceiling for a moment then back down at my stomach; "You're father, he would have something clever to say right now. 'Elfie, there's no need to speak to the baby. He hasn't developed a sense of hearing yet so there is no point. Dull.'" I chuckle to myself at my impression of Sherlock; I've got to remember to show it to him one day.

"He would call you a 'he', you know." I go on in my normal voice, "Your father is convinced you're a boy. I'm not even in my second trimester and he's already picked out your name. That's him, though: So very stubborn and never admitting that he might be wrong. Then again, he rarely ever is. Your father is a genius and I can't wait for you to meet him. In fact, I can't wait to meet you…my sweet little Hamish. Do you like that name? You're father picked it, but like I said, we don't know if you're a boy yet. Why, then, do I feel so comfortable calling you Hamish already? Maybe your daddy's right, it wouldn't surprise me."

To my own surprise, I feel tears welling up in my eyes. I think the reality of oncoming parenthood has hit me. I'm going to be a mom and Sherlock is going to be a dad; it's surreal and utterly exciting. This will change our lives, no doubt, but I hope that Sherlock won't feel the need to take less work. If there is one thing I definitely can't handle, it's a bored Sherlock Holmes; He's worse than a newborn. I can see it now: Sherlock Holmes, seated at his microscope, bouncing a baby boy on his lap while he's dissecting a cow tongue. I chuckle at the thought then return to rubbing my belly:

"You're going to love your daddy, Hamish, from the moment you see him." I say, "That's what happened to me. He's odd, that's for sure, but he's the most brilliant man you'll ever come across. He's going to look out for you and I, he always will. He's our guardian angel, Hamish, and I can't wait for you to meet him." I then turn my head to stare toward the windows: "Hurry home, Sherlock," I whisper, "Please. Hurry home, safely."

0o0o0o0oo0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

It's felt like hours have gone by since John left.

Where is he?

Why haven't I heard from him?

I pace around the living room, Sherlock's robe flowing behind me like some sort of cape, and running my fingers through my hair. Goodness, I must look like a proper Holmes right now.

"Yoo hoo." Mrs. Hudson says, gently knocking on the doorframe, "Sorry, am I interrupting?"

"No, no, not at all." I reply, finally taking a seat in Sherlock's arm chair, "Come on in."

Mrs. Hudson enters the room fully and takes a seat on the couch; "I just wanted to keep you company, dear." She says, "You seemed so stressed when I brought up your tea. Have you heard from the boys?"

"No, not a word." I reply, "I tried calling Sherlock's cell but I kept getting a busy signal, same with John's. Do…do you think they're alright?"

"Of course, dear," she says with a comforting smile, "If I've learned one thing from all my years of known your husband, it's that he will always be alright in the end, no matter how hectic or hopeless it all may seem."

I give her a warm smile and nod; "you're right." I reply, "But I wish he would just call me, or text, or something, just so I know."

As if to answer my request, Mrs. Hudson and I hear the street door slam shut. I practically jump out of the chair and book it down the stairs. John is at the foot of the stairs, back to me, with his hand still on the door handle. He looks like a statue, why's he standing so still?
"John," I exclaim, heading down to greet him, "thank God, you're okay!" He slowly turns around and I quickly wrap my arms around him for a hug: "What happened? Tell me everything." I say, "Was it Moriarty? We're we right?"

John doesn't reply. He only just holds me in return and hides his face on my shoulder, giving off deep shaky breaths. Is he…crying?

"John, you okay?" I ask, gently rubbing his back, "What's wrong?" Suddenly, I notice something very off about this scene: "John, where's Sherlock?" His hold on me only tightens and he slowly shakes his head. A giant lump begins to develop in my throat as I fear for the worst: "John, where is he?"

"Elfie, I'm sorry." He whispers, "I…I don't know how or-or why…He just did it right in front of me and I can't wrap my mind around…Jesus, I can't."

"John, you're scaring me." I say, finally pulling away to look him face to face, "What are you talking about? Is Sherlock okay?" The normally brave and strong army doctor's eyes are red with held back tears and I can see the hurt and complete sadness in his gaze. "Where's Sherlock?" I ask one more time.

"Fee," John breathes out, "He's…Sherlock…Elfie he's gone."

"Gone?" I ask, "You mean, he left? To hide, right? He…He needed to protect himself. That makes sense actually and so…" I stop as soon as I notice John's shaking head. I place a hand on my heart as my breathing becomes a bit heavier. No, he doesn't mean gone in the other sense. Not in the much darker and morbid sense, no. Not my Sherlock. That couldn't have happened.

"Elfie," John tries again, clearing his throat, "he's…God, I'm so sorry, Fee."

"John, just say it." I breathe out, "Please. Just tell me the truth. Is he…God, did he…John, just tell me."

"He's dead, Elfie" John lets out in small whisper, "I watched him an-and I…God, the blood and…I took his pulse and there wasn't one. Elfie, I'm so sorry."

I didn't even hear the words coming out of John's mouth, not after his first statement. I just gaze into his eyes, hoping to find some sort of sign that he's lying to me. He has to be, but why would he? No, John can't be telling the truth. Sherlock can't be dead. That's just not possible. My knees start to wobble and my whole world seems to be crashing in on me. Hot tears fall from my eyes and it feels as if someone's just punched me in the throat. Everything seems to be unreal and I cant' seem to focus.

Sherlock's dead.

No, that can't be true. It just can't.

Not my Sherlock.

"No," I manage to say, "John, please tell me your lying. For once, tell me that this isn't happening. Tell me that he's going to come home later tonight an-and that he just has to lie low right now from Moriarty or-or the police. Tell me that he's going to come home and…God, just don't tell me I've lost him."

Finally giving, I practically fall into John's arms and sob uncontrollably into his jumper: "Please God, no!" I cry, clutching onto John, "Not Sherlock! Not him, John! It can't be him! Please!" John tightly holds me in return and begins to rub his hands up and down my back.

In my mind's eye, I can see Sherlock: every face, every expression, every time I ever laid eyes on him. From the day Janice walked him into my office:

"Pleasure," this Mr. Holmes character says, extending his leather gloved hand out to me.

When he first called me his friend:

"There's no one I can relate to here. Well, except...maybe you."

"Really?"

"Of course. If you haven't noticed, I hold you…I hold you in very high regard."

The night we became a couple:

"I want to share that affection with you, Elfie Stegerson and it has taken me far to long to realize it. I'm…scared by this feeling I'll admit it. However, I would be more than happy to share it with you…if you are willing to let me try. All I ask is for you to be patient with me; I hurt you before, and I will do everything in my power to not make that mistake again. I…I love you."

Up until this morning:

"I love you, my brilliant genius."

"I love you, my darling, darling girl. Now, go."

That's the last thing he said to me. The last time I will ever hear his voice. The last time he will ever call me his darling, darling girl. He's gone. I've lost him. The one and only person, who had taken my heart and made me feel like I was whole, is gone.

"Elfie," John whispers, his voice cracking. I slowly lift my head and gaze up at him, half hoping it to be Sherlock's face. Very slowly, John releases me and takes my hand into his. With his free hand, he digs through his jean pocket and pulls out a small object. John slowly turns my hand over, palm up, and sets the object directly in the middle of it. It's a silver ring: Sherlock's ring.

I cover my mouth with my free hand and gently fold my fingers over the ring. The tears come out in a free flow now and hide my face in John's jumper again: "He can't do this, John." I cry, "He can't leave."

"I know," John soothes, holding me again and beginning to cry, "I know."

I close my eyes and try to remove myself from this moment.

There is not a thing the world that can comfort me now because my whole world is gone.

My Sherlock Holmes is gone.