A/N: This story has been brewing for a while. I promise you feels galore eventually but it will be sooo worth it. Don't forget to follow/favourite/review! Enjoy :)

It is remarkable how such a man can make such a large impact in such a small amount of time. When Sherlock Holmes arrived on Mrs Hudson's doorstep eighteen months ago, he was adrift in the perpetual forest of darkness, wandering incessantly looking for a purpose, a kismet. Before he met John the two of them were wandering similar paths of never ending loneliness, parallel to each other and never quite meeting until one day they did. One day their plots in the story of life intertwined. Their story arc carried for several years, blossoming as time went on. Love. That was their story. And this is how it ends.

"Hey, Jim," the barman signalled for the drunken man to come his way. "You got money to pay for that?" he nodded in the direction of the empty glass in the young man's shaky hand. His icy eyes narrowed. Jim met them with dark eyes and shook his head in one small action. "Get out."

"I'll do you any favour, my friend," Jim tried to laugh it off. He'd survived on free drinks for the past hour but now his wallet was light and all of his friends had run out.

"I said, get out," the burly man urged, jerking his head beyond the stained-glass-windowed door and into the forbidding streets. Jim shuddered as he looked out of the window. "It's dangerous out in the streets of London at night." He paused for effect as he stepped closer to the man, towering above him. "But it's even more dangerous in here." Jim walked quickly towards the door, wanting out of there as soon as possible. As he opened the door a strong gust of wind caught him and chilled him to the bone. "Don't come back here again," the barman warned. The drunken man stumbled out into the street and didn't dare to look back. If he had, he would have seen a short, middle-aged man questioning the barman on his motives.

Jim walked a few paces before finding himself face down on the floor. He didn't even try to pick himself up. What was the use? Get up, go to a pub, get kicked out. Get up, go to a pub, get kicked out. Get up, go-

His drunken mind stopped whirring as he felt a firm hand on his shoulder. It was the barman again, wasn't it? He acted fast, faster than a man with no experience of the dark streets of London. In a flash he was on his feet, wild eyes flashing and knuckles brandishing towards the man who had touched him.

The other man was also quick, quicker than Jim. Must have trained in the army, Jim thought. No-one is quicker than me. They stood there for a minute, eyeing each other out, waiting for the other to make a move. The man lowered his arms first.

"I don't want trouble," he said cautiously.

"Everyone wants trouble with me," Jim spat. Gone were the slurred sentences; adrenaline pulsed through his veins. He found himself regretting not punching the man in the face. He found himself wanting a fight. He quickly threw a punch to the man's nose, but the short bloke's reactions were fast and Jim's fist was firmly held. Jim tried again with his other hand, but again the man grabbed his shaking fist.

"I want to help you," said the man, looking straight into Jim's eyes. His grip relaxed and both men's arms dropped to their sides, their chests heaving. "Do you have somewhere to stay for the night?" Jim shook his head and dropped his gaze to the grey paving slabs which were strewn with ancient bubblegum and cigarette stubs. The man shoved his hand into his pocket for a minute, searching for his wallet. At last he brought it out and cautiously opened it, revealing a wad of notes. He wrestled with the rubber band that held them together and took out five twenty pound notes. Extending his arm, he offered the large sum of money to Jim, who had never seen that much money in his life.

"Thank you," he said, the words echoing around the deserted street, the raucous laughter of the pub faded into the background.

"Go and find somewhere to stay for the night, alright? Don't spend it on beer or whatever. You must use it to become a better man." He extended his hand again. "John." Jim took his hand a shook it firmly, looking him right in the eye.

"Jim. Though most people call me Drunken Jim..." he replied.

"Not anymore."A smile spread across Jim's face as he backed away into the night. John sighed and turned to go back to his flat as a warm feeling spread inside him and melted through his veins like butter on toast.

Jim walked down the hill with a skip in his stride as he felt the notes in his pocket. He was going to act on John's words and be an honest guy. An advertisement for a disused shop cropped up on the wall next to him: "Shop space for sale, only £50 to hire for a week. Call 01516473480 for details."

And that was the start of Jim's small business. With half of the money, he hired the shop. With the other half he bought stock. The sales increased daily and he was able to produce more stock, employ workers and grow his company. Business was booming for Jim.

Outside of the shop window there were three bike stands. Their yellow colour could brighten anyone's day, but what brightened Jim's day further was the young lady who parked her bike there every morning without fail.