It was a cold day, in the last weeks of autumn.

That, perhaps, is not quite the most wonderful beggining but that will have to do for the time being.

Sherlock Holmes climbed down silently from his cab. Other important officials climbed down after him, gently murmuring consolations and empty words that died away in the cold air. The black collars of the men's coats whipped in the wind; Holmes's mourning band burned against his hand.

The gentle murmurs of the crowd died down as he turned away and started mounting the stairs. One of the men started to call after him, but his companion, a large, corpulent man, seized his elbow and shook his head. Mycroft Holmes looked at his brother's tall, thin form disappearing into the church's doors and felt his heart clench with pain.

Oh Sherlock…

/

The church was dark, and to some, almost comfortingly silent. The soft voices of the people melted into the silence and the occasional footfalls died away as well.

Holmes noticed nothing of this. His once black hair, now graying from the temples, was whipped back against the fierce wind as he entered the building. More lines then one remembered now graced his face and his mouth was turned up into his customary tight smile. One that saw no reason for joy. Only his eyes were the same. Bright, silver, darting from one corner to the other. Only the ones who knew him well could see that he spark was gone. A strange dark burden had entered him and turned his silver orbs a murky gray, which now fixed themselves onto the cleric hurrying towards hm from a side door.

He muttered the usual words of consolation, the ones which mean next to nothing for the man who has lost everything.

"Quite peaceful, we'll see to everything, don't you worry…"

"I wish to see him."

The cleric nodded, but glanced behind his visitor almost hesitantly.

"Isn't there any one else…."

Holmes brushed brusquely past him and reached the door. The cleric made as if to go with him, but the slam of the heavy wooden door, echoing strangely in the vast church, gave him his answer.

/

The room was small and musty. Two flickering candles kept at each end offered the only light, and threw ghostly shadows on the wall, and on the man lain on the tiny bed at the very edge of the room.

His reddish brown hair, dying away to grey, was combed back neatly, revealing a peaceful face, with a slate grey mustache and eyes that were closed as if in sleep. He was still dressed in his uniform, and any sign of his wound or injury had been removed but the long thin cut on his chest showed where the fatal blow was dealt.

Soft steps took him to the bed and he knelt beside it and looked at his dearest friend.

John Watson's hand was cold when Holmes laid his hand on it. The skin was rough and calloused and worn with his unselfish efforts to save his fellow men.

"Watson…."

He did not know what to say. Every inch of him had turned numb and cold with misery and the horrible reality of what had happened. He had not believed the telegram when it had arrived, had not wished to believe that his Watson had really left him.

"I…"

What could he say? What could he say now, days after the event was done, when there was nothing left to do, nothing left to say?

"You really are insufferable, Holmes."

He smiled through his tears. Faithful Watson.

"If you honestly want to beg my pardon, then there is no need for it. Honestly, Holmes, it was not as if it was your fault."

"But it was…it was…."

"And how was it then?"

He had no answer. He strained to say all those things he had wished to say, how he could have stopped him from going to the war, how he could have-

None of these would have worked, he know that. Watson would never back down from serving his country. Not his Watson.

"There? See you know it yourself."

Yes, but it still hurt. How it hurt….

"You'll be brave, won't you, Holmes? We'll meet soon. Life goes on, eh?"

Yes, yes, they would meet….His Boswell would come back to him, in time…

He presses his hand on Watson's cold forehead, as a last parting farewell. His inner turmoil threatens to spill.

A hand on his shoulder calls him back to reality. He looks up to see the cleric smiling kindly down to him.

"Do you need anything done, sir?"

He shakes his head, and quits the chamber. As he walks through the rows in the church, he pauses. Through the light filtering through the tiny window at the top, he sees a man, his hair turned golden by the sun's rays, his hazel eyes sparkling with an innate joy as he looks at Holmes, who had not moved an inch.

Watson smiles one last time, and vanishes from view.

It is as if a dam has burst within Holmes. His steps quicken, though he doesn't actually run, and in a few moments he is out of a side door and leaning on the wall. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Mycroft and the others but they cannot see him and he doesn't call them. Instead he sinks to his knees and buries his face in his hands. In a few moments he is shaking, and tears spill from the enclosure of his hands.

"Watson, oh Watson…."

I cannot believe I wrote that. Ack! I killed Watson! Somebody please shoot me.

Sorry about the late update. There are three primary reasons for this…

One, schools restarted and I can only go online once a week.

Two, this year is the most important year, and they are absolutely overloading us with exams completely crushing our creative spirit.

Three, a few days ago I opened my mailbox and saw a letter from Wao cheng there, and almost fainted. But it turns out her elder sister sent it. She had almost finished writing her letter to me when she had been killed. This story is dedicated to her. Here's an extract from it that almost made me cry….

Brother tells me that we are to come to India as soon as we find Lee. Father says it is not safe to stay in China anymore. I am waiting with delight to meet you again my friend. Lee will be very happy to hear that I met you again but I am also crying because he cannot see you.

You told me. That in India, you believe in the theory of Karma, right? Reincarnation. So, if I believe, hard enough, Lee will one day be reincarnated and return to us and won't that be nice! We will both pray for him, my friend, so that we may see him again one day.

I cannot wait to see you and talk to you again! Please await my arrival!

Lee is her younger brother who was killed during the earthquake. Most ironically, she was killed while searching from him, when a large section of their school collapsed.

I wonder how I'm writing this in cold blood…..