A/N: Sorry for the bad quality of this, I wrote it at three in the morning after listening to Candles by Hey Monday way too much :p But yes, my first time trying to write angst... Serious angst at least, not the pathetic Mary-Sue angst I wrote when I was younger. Please review and tell me what's wrong with it or what you liked about it, I'd really appreciate it ^^

Aldo this wasn't supposed to be slashy, but probably could be taken that way ^^; Like, really easily. Probably because I was reading Holmes/Watson slash before attempting to write this. But to me it'd be like losing a brother, not necessarily a lover, but it's personal choice :)

It was three in the morning, a time for most reasonable people to be asleep in their beds dreaming of sweet nothings. This was not so for one Sherlock Holmes, sitting in a plush red armchair in front of the unlit fireplace in his sitting room, an empty bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand and a pipe in the other, still unfortunately and painfully awake. He was currently contemplating the clock on his mantle, the steady ticking irking him in his inebriated state.

Time.

Oh how he had always loved time; working against it to solve a case before the evidence withered and faded away, challenging it when he tested how long he could fight time and nature by not succumbing to his desire to sleep. He treated time like a lover and an enemy at once, embracing it with passion while fighting it off and challenging it.

But he never really thought about time, about the future, and when he did, no matter what there was always one constant- Watson.

And oh, how he now hated time, hated it with a fire he had never known. It slipped away too fast, didn't allow one time to adjust before changing everything. Holmes never believed his time with Watson would run out- of course he was told by Watson himself they would part ways, but he never believed him until the horrible, horrible day that Watson walked out the door of 221B Baker Street for the last time.

And now he was all too aware of it, each hour dragging by seeming an age. It felt like years since Watson had left, yet it hadn't even been a full week. And he himself felt older, much older. All of his life seemed to have left with Watson and he was left a shell of his former self, a husk.

He missed waking Watson up with his violin, he missed his disapproving frown that didn't quite hide his amusement at Holmes' experiments, missed their friendly banter and hell, he even missed their arguments. Because Holmes knew (as intelligent people are wont to do) that he would gladly have Watson at his side criticising his every move than be alone on this godforsaken morning, and every other day for the rest of his life.

He wanted to scream and hurl the empty bottle in his hand at the fireplace and watch it shatter into a million pieces as his heart did when Watson left their life of crime-fighting and mystery-solving to go live in a fancy, feminine house with his beloved Mary. But he couldn't, he couldn't summon the energy to lift his head, let alone his hand; he was more tired than he had ever been in his life, his head and heart heavy as he felt his eyes pricking and flooding with tears he quickly blinked away.

Oh, time was a cruel mistress who took pleasure in rushing everything forward and breaking hearts and shredding souls.

And Holmes was indeed broken and shredded, doubtful that he would ever be able to leave his armchair, certain that he wouldn't even if he could. He would waste away, let time finally take his body as well as his heart and soul and he would finally be at peace once more. His crueller and more sadistic side hoped that after discovering his death Watson would take his own life in a fit of anguish, but he knew that was unrealistic. And anyway, he didn't entertain any romantic notions of a life after death, being united forever in a perfect kingdom in the stars- no, he knew that once you were dead you were dead, no meeting other souls in the afterlife for a grand reunion so there would be no benefit for Watson to take his life; simply a world without Watson.

But a world without Holmes, would that be so bad? It was obvious to him he had nothing to live for anymore, his faithful companionship with Watson over the years replaced so quickly by the favour of a woman. And how could he solve crimes without Watson? It was unthinkable, unnatural even, like imagining a tree without its roots to keep it grounded.

But simply letting himself waste away, no that would take too long; days, weeks even; and he couldn't take more of the slow ticking of time. No, he wanted something immediate and painless, something that would finally put him into the dreamless sleep he so craved now that he was Watson-less.

Immediately his mind went to the countless drugs and poisons he had lined up upstairs. Of course, he had shattered the majority of them in his fit after Watson left, but surely there had to be something left to help his pain. So with all the energy he could muster he finally moved, dropping his bottle on the floor with a dissatisfying clunk. He crawled up the stairs, the blood pounding in his head and alcohol in his blood making his progress slow and shaky but he persevered and was glad of his stubborn nature. Reaching the correct door he stood up and leant against it, fighting the wave of nausea and dizziness brought on by the sudden change of altitude.

A vision of Watson swam into his mind and began scolding him for being so foolish; warning him notto do what vision-Watson thought he was going to do.

It's all for you, my dear. He thought grimly as he pushed the door open and stepped inside. The familiar smell of various acids, poisons, drugs, gunpowder and a faint whiff of dog brought back memories of cases past and of just sitting, talking and laughing with the only man Holmes had ever considered an equal, a friend.

Tears sprang unbidden to his eyes and before he could blink them away they made their way down his cheeks as he searched for an appropriate end to his life. His drunken frustration grew as he sifted through the remaining vials and containers searching for something, anything toxic and turning up nothing. With a growl he upturned the table onto the floor and shattered the rest of his workstation. He sank to his knees as the tears increased and he collapsed into a small heap, his shoulders shaking as his body was wracked with violent sobs.

Time doesn't stop for the broken hearted, it doesn't wait to let people heal, it doesn't care, and it doesn't feel. Time just keeps ticking on and we just have to tick along with it or get lost in the tide.