The BeginningJohn was eating quietly, the telly was on, but he didn’t seem to hear it. He was eating dinner very late today; it was almost 10:00 p.m. He gulped down another morsel, and stared at the empty chair beside him. Everyday since the last one year, he had saved a seat for Sherlock. It wasn’t possible he died. He was alive, John could feel it. He knew one day he would hear his voice at the door. He knew Sherlock would come back. Sherlock had to.More Like This
John’s thoughts were interrupted by a sudden knock on the door. He wondered who it was, nobody except Mycroft and Lestrade visited him. It was late; it couldn’t be Lestrade. He cried “The door is open Mycroft!” There was no reply. Another knock. John muttered something under his breath and got up to open the door. All of a sudden a blue Police box materialized into the room. John literally fell back into the chair.
The doctor was talking to Amy. “Amy! There is something wrong with the T.A.R.DI.S, it’s
The Kerchief or Vengeance for IreneMore Like This
There were no words.
Watson had none, and Sherlock would give him none.
The kerchief lay on his lap, fluttering a little in the breeze. He could see the change in Sherlock's eyes. They looked dead, dull. Their usual gleam had vanished with the discovery, and his mouth was set in a grim line, his breaths clipped. He left Watson to imagine only the worst.
And Sherlock hadn't said anything. Not that Watson would honestly have expected him to.
His friend was stiff as he plucked the bloodied kerchief from Watson's grasp, stood and walked to the rail.
Pain and lifelessness: that was the look in Sherlock's eyes. Watson knew that she had been the only woman that Holmes had ever considered to be worthy of his attentions, if not his affections. Holmes' regard for her outstripped nearly anyone else into whose contact he had come.
She was the woman.
Watson watched as Holmes lifted the kerchief to his face, taking in the last of her scent, that