OPENING AUTHORESSIAL NOTE: Wow, one chapter and five reviews already! I feel loved. Thank you muchly, you guys! Well, here goes the next chapter. Enjoy it, I command you.

And on another note, I am quite pleased to see the number of people who agree with me in that the movie Mary was a bit too smug. You guys all get high-fives. (High-fives you all)

DISCLAIMER: If I owned Sherlock Holmes (the movie), the Watson would have been a lot nicer. But, hey, it's Jude Law, he kicks butt. Who's complaining.

Dr. John Watson was up earlier than usual the next morning, meandering blearily into the kitchen to find his wife-to-be already up and pouring herself a cup of tea.

"Good morning, John." She offered him a bright smile. "Did you sleep well?"

"Indeed I did, my dear." He leaned against the doorframe and watched her, a happy smile on his lips. "Have you been up long?"

"Not particularly. Make yourself some tea, do." She gestured to the teapot, which she had just put down. Watson nodded.

"I will. I'm going to go get the paper first, though."

"Oh, I already sent someone out to fetch that, darling. I haven't looked at it yet, but it's on the dining table."

"Thank you. You're a wonder." Watson pressed a light kiss to her cheek and then proceeded to make himself the suggested cup of tea.

Making his way into the dining room, he picked up the paper and shook it out to look at the front page, bringing his cup of tea up to his lips to take a sip. He never even tasted the liquid, however, letting out a cry of horror as the teacup slipped from his grasp and shattered on the floor.

Mary materialized in the doorway. "John, what is it? What's the matter?"

Watson couldn't answer, his gaze transfixed on the picture in the paper. It was a bit grainy, a little blurry, but it was still obvious what it was.

The headline was: WORLD'S GREATEST DETECTIVE DIES: COMMITS SUICIDE? The picture was of Sherlock Holmes, looking precisely as he had at the end of the Blackwood case – except this time it was apparently real; he wasn't pretending, nor was he experimenting with a harness.

A strangled noise emerged from what he thought might have been his throat. "I – Mary, I have to - "

"Of course. Of course, dear." She patted his arm. "Go. I'll be fine."

Watson nodded, and then he was on the move, grabbing his coat, hat, and gloves and then dashing out of the door to catch a cab, still clutching the paper desperately in one hand.

Inspector Lestrade was waiting for him when he came bursting into Baker Street. The detective turned to him, a look of distinct anguish on his face.

"Dr. Watson. I don't think -"

"You don't often, do you?" Watson retorted rudely, shoving past him and tearing up the stairs two at a time. The door to the sitting room was open, and he had to stop for a moment and take a deep breath before stepping inside.

The room was empty, apart from Constable Clarky, who looked up at the doctor entered the room.

"Doctor Watson!" He sounded surprised. Why would he sound surprised, Watson wondered? It wasn't like he wouldn't have seen the morning paper by now. "I – you – er – what are you doing here?"

"Where's the body?" Watson snapped, not caring about being polite.

"B-body?" Clarky looked shocked. "Doctor, how -"

"It's in the morning paper," Watson growled darkly. The paper was still clutched in his hand, and now his fist clenched even tighter around it. "So where is it?"

"I-it's already been taken," Clarky stammered.

"Where?"

"You won't find it, Dr. Watson." Lestrade's voice came from behind him, sorrowful and tired. "His brother came by and said that it had been his express wish that he be cremated. The only thing left is a container full of ashes, I'm afraid."

Watson had turned to look at him as he spoke. There was a long pause after Lestrade finished talking; then Watson let out a low, keening wail as his legs gave out and he fell to the floor.

"Oh, Dr. Watson." Lestrade knelt by his side, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "There was nothing you could have done."

There was plenty you could have done, Watson's mind screamed irrationally. But he said nothing; only let out a ragged, gasping breath as the room swam before his eyes.

"Dr. Watson? Dr. Watson!"

"Oh, my word! John, are you alright?"

"No, he isn't," Lestrade said grimly. He was holding Watson's arm in a firm grip in case he collapsed – again. "He came very close to passing out at the… scene, and he is still rather unstable. I think he needs a stiff glass of brandy – the man can barely hold himself up."

" 'M fine," Watson mumbled, but even he did not believe himself.

He did not register the inspector's leaving, but he vaguely recalled Mary guiding him gently to a chair and then pouring him the suggested glass of brandy. He didn't want it, but Mary insisted, and not wanting to deny her wishes he downed the beverage. His head felt a little clearer and his body more stable afterwards, and he was able to speak again.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Mary asked, cupping his face in her hand. "Should I call Dr. Anstruther?"

"No. No, I'm just – it's just a mild case of shock, dear. I'll be fine."

"Well, if you say so…" She straightened up, looking at him with fond concern. "I'll go make you a cup of tea. Try not to drop it this time, alright?"

Watson was able to muster a weak laugh at her attempt at a joke. As she left the room, he gazed at the far wall for a time; then he pulled out the paper and stared at the picture on the front page yet again.

As he stared, his brow furrowed. Then his eyes narrowed, and he brought the paper closer to his face.

When Mary re-entered the room, she found her fiancée scribbling furiously in one of his many notebooks, his gaze darting back and forth from its pages to the picture on the front page of the paper and back again.

"John, are you alright?" she inquired gently. "John?"

His gaze flashed up at her, and she stared at the look of sheer determination in his eyes.

"He's not dead," he breathed. "Sherlock Holmes isn't dead at all."

A3: WHO DAT. The plot thickens. Is Watson going crazy? Or does he know something?

And now, here with me to assist in pleading for reviews, is none other than the greatest private consulting detective of all time!

Sherlock Holmes: WHY AM I HERE I DON'T UNDERSTAND.

A3: I need you to be your lovable self and offer your RDJ puppy stare to the readers so that they will review us.

Sherlock: But, but, how can I be here and in the story AT THE SAME TIME? This, this isn't logicaaaal!

A3: Life isn't logical. Now, do what I pay you to do.

Sherlock: ...You pay me?

A3: No, actually I don't.

Sherlock: FINE. (Turns to readers) Please review so that I can escape. I'm worried about what that Mary woman might be doing to Watson in my absence.

A3: (Dark snicker) Oh, you'll find out soon enough...

Sherlock: (Sharply) What was that?

A3: ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. Ending the chapter now.