This was quite another case, but simple enough to solve. No pressure. It was simply just like all the other cases, though he, Sherlock Holmes, has not chosen to solve this one for nothing. This was so fabulously unique and one of a kind. Or maybe two. At least, as far as he has observed, and as we all know, he has observed many a thing. He was nearly finished with it. Nearly. He just needed to see this one meeting through.

The great detective nodded at Wiggins, sitting back in his chair, with his elbows on the arms of the couch, fingers interlaced, hands set under his chin conveniently. The little boy went out with a happy face, pocketing the money which he and his friends had much deserved. He wanted to treat the boys for their hard work.

Dark, twinkling orbs then looked at Athelney Jones after the door was closed. "The sister was just so driven with anger, and therefore had killed the man seconds before her brother had gotten there, and in a flurry, had killed her brother herself. She had time to cry over him, for she loved her brother so dearly, hence the mix of water and salt on his corpse. It was nowhere near your suspicions of him having a sore throat."

The Scotland Yard detective had flushed in embarrassment at this.

"But she recovered, and realizing her mistakes, she quickly made arrangements, and was on her way to America to escape her crimes before anybody had suspected it. She hid the evidence quite well, and is definitely an actress. She almost got me, what with placing a glass beside her brother, making it look like he was washing his throat as he came in the scene. She even made a solution of salt and water to cover her crying and splashed it around his body, and put some in his mouth. And, placed the gun she had used to kill both of them in his other hand, so that it would seem that he had killed the first corpse, then committed suicide, as you had predicted." He cleared his throat as he flourished his pipe and lighted it. He remembers the late Irene Adler; both women so fast, resolute, and cunning, although this one had rather monstrous features compared to the woman. "Had my boys not informed you – or your guards, whomever –, she would've escaped completely. I trust she is secured now?"

Jones nodded, taking off his hat and keeping it in his hands as he sat down on the couch. "However, I wonder why you were not there yourself; did you have something other than this case?"

Holmes coughed, puffs of smoke coming out of his mouth. He feared Jones would ask that. "It's rather unfortunate, really. I had wanted to go there, but my previous encounter with the miss has left me very wounded. She had her paid… servants." He nearly hissed the last word.

Jones' eyes flickered down to Holmes' knee, which was obviously badly injured. It was covered in bandages, while the pant of his leg was folded up to his knee. His leg was raised and put on another chair. "Is it from yesterday?" inquired he, curiosity in his orbs as he looked up to the brunette.

"Yes. Where else, no?" answered Holmes. Of course, this was just an act. Yes, her men were huge brutes, but honestly, their moves were predictable. He could practically hear them thinking. So these bandages were definitely not the work of her prize-fighters that were to escort her everywhere she went to secure her arrangements. He just needed a cover.

Jones had tried to not huff proudly at the fact that Holmes was injured, but it proved to be too much for him. "Well, the best of us get hurt, too." Then he stood up and put his hat on, and around him there was an air of satisfaction. "I best be on my way; the boys in Scotland Yard and the press are waiting. This was the most notorious crime committed this year. A sister who shot her brother, and from a respected family at that! The press is raving about it. I hope you can attend the court trial, for your testimony will be of such help. You had also better get your knee healed." And with that, the door was closed.

Yes, yes. A cover from what, for what? What was so important that he had not gone to capture the suspect himself? Not for 'what', no. 'Who' is the more right term. Then, for who? Well, it was none other than the Doctor. He thought he was to come anytime soon now; his brother Mycroft had wired him telling him that he was sure that Watson was to be having his first baby with Mary. Knowing Watson, he would either send a telegraph or come here himself. He was hoping for the latter, but as time eagerly passed, that was getting more and more impossible, and he was now expecting the former.

…

Agh! What was he doing making theories anyway? Holmes tore the bandages from his knee with frustration, and then stood up to walk to his window, pipe in between his lips. It was the usual bustling street he viewed on any other afternoon. There was Athelney's cabby driving away. Nothing unusual. Not even a single, heinous, hand-knitted scarf of a wife poking out of the dark colors. Brilliant.

However, the telltale steps of a man with one knee truly injured made his way up to the stairs, he heard, and the knocking of the door with not a hand, but with a cane. A smile made its way to Holmes' formerly sardonic face. He discovered again that he overanalysed too much when it came to his dear friend, and then some.

"Holmes?" The muffled voice of John Watson rang in his ears, and it was one of the most glorious melodies he had not heard in such a long time. It was spring when he last visited, and it is nearing winter now. Oh, how marriage sucked everything from his dear Watson, and all it gave him was unnecessary weight, and perhaps a baby, which will suck more of his remaining vitality from him. It was not long before Watson would grow pompous.

When the door opened, however, it seemed that Watson had even lost weight from the last time that he had seen him. Holmes took his pipe from his mouth and let smoke out from it as he examined Watson. "You look exhausted, and it seems to me that you have lost seven pounds and a half." observed he, concerned eyes looking over his friend. "And you have still not gotten rid of Mary Jane. I swear that she makes you look worse than you should."

Blue orbs moved towards the figure near the window and wearily looked back. He closed the door behind him, and sat himself down on the couch, exhaling tiredly. "I haven't slept well for the past few months, that's all. And I'll take that seven pounds comment as a compliment. As for Mary Jane, my wife is giving her too many second chances. The girl is an actress!"

Holmes, as Watson was assuring him he was alright, detected a slight nervousness in his body language. His friend was doing well in hiding it, though. He wondered what was in the mind of this man. "It's perhaps because of the fact the little Watson is coming on over in five months."

There was a little twitch on John's lips, indicating a smile, and a knowing twinkle came over his weary eyes. "And so you've heard of him. Word indeed gets around fast." He sat back in the couch, and sighed again, satisfied that the usual softness was familiar on his back. He inhaled the aromas of the room, which were mainly coffee, tobacco, and cocaine leaves. As usual. "We're expecting him in late March. Mrs. Hudson has told you?"

Holmes shook his head, walking over to his armchair. "Mycroft has informed me. And it hurts me that my brother and even Mrs. Nanny had known this news before me." He sat down, face genuinely pained, which he hid by grabbing and straightening the newspaper roll from the desk near them, which he had not yet read. It was delivered this morning, and on the front page, big, bold letters were printed, proclaiming: 'MORNE FAMILY ISSUE ENDED: THE SISTER GUILTY'

"Your brother? I do not even know that your brother knows." He sighed for the third time, and this time it told that he was exasperated. "I told Mary not to tell anyone anymore. I was assured by Mrs. Hudson that she will not tell you of this, but this just proves Mary is very excited, despite her morning sicknesses, which sometimes grow into afternoon sicknesses and then night sicknesses, and varying moods." He paused, and Holmes opened the newspaper to read more of the story. Again, it was Athelney Jones who was given more of the credit. He could not find his own name anywhere. "I do hope you're listening when I say this, because I'm certainly not going to repeat it again. I wanted to tell you myself."

Sherlock did not move his hands to fold the newspaper to be able to look at his friend, but he found it hard to read anymore words. "Do tell me more." 'Do convince me that I am not supposed to be waiting for an apology.' He thought in his own mind, which was in shambles. Time and again, he finds himself overanalysing everything when it came to this man. He was sure that Watson had not put that stress on the last word because he wanted to; it was natural to an earnest man like him. He was also sure that it was also natural that Watson would apologize because he was a man of morals, not because Holmes was someone whom he was supposed to apologize to because he was someone he held so important, someone as important as his wife, someone even more important. He was also very, very, very sure that Watson was not anxious because he was going to tell him that he loved him more than he did his wife, which he did not really love at all, someone who struck him as beautiful and amiable, but only served as a social cover for he was gay for Sherlock Holmes, his long-time friend. But, no matter how sure he could be, he still wanted those to be true. At that moment, the detective pitied himself for falling in love with his friend. They would never happen.

Holmes heard Watson inhale deeply, as if he was getting ready to tell him something huge, or long. "I'm sorry, Holmes, that you were the last to know of this. I wanted to go here earlier to deliver the news in person –" He coughed for a moment, and then cleared his throat. "But the missus's health and mood swings had inconvenienced me. When I tell her that I will go to you tomorrow the night before I plan to make a visit, she's all fine and dandy. Then when I get ready next morning, she screams at me then cries that I was going to leave her for another man, namely, you." He chuckled a little bit, and fumbled with his cane. Holmes, unknowingly to himself, held his breath and folded the newspaper in half so that he saw his friend. Watson slightly hung his head forward, and his blue eyes peered at him from under his eyelashes. "That would be ridiculous, now wouldn't it?"

Holmes was sure disappointment flickered on his face, but like a light bulb, he turned off the expression immediately. He let loose of the air inside his lungs stronger than needed, and straightened the newspaper once again. "Yes, well. Women have this wild intuition." muttered he, trying his best to wipe the dissatisfaction from his voice.

"Are you saying she's right?" Sherlock couldn't quite pinpoint what emotion was in the tone of the doctor's voice. A mix of curiosity, and… something else?

Holmes cleared his throat. "No, dear friend. It's only a wrong choice of words." was what he ought to say, but then he said something entirely different, that he thought for sure would scare dear Watson away. He stood up smoothly, and towered above the retired soldier's seated figure. "I do hope so. Now, if you would excuse me." Embarrassment had unexpectedly rushed into his system, and he had felt the need to flee from the scene and come out of his room an hour later and convince Watson he was asleep for the past few minutes and imply that everything that he had said was just part of a dream.

When he had made it into his room, Holmes had slammed the door, and winced at this action. Was he really being this petty? He could not believe he had just done that. For a full five minutes, everything was still, and a second seemed to go on for forever. The detective was sitting against the door, knees drawn up to his chest, arms on top of them and face on it. His chocolate orbs were closed shut, and his hands were clenched into tight fists. He didn't hear anything from outside. Then, feet shuffled uncertainly towards him, and a cane knocked on the door. "Holmes?"

The brunette said nothing, for fear of saying something idiotic.

"Holmes." Watson called a second time, and then inhaled a huge deal of air. "I… I… I don't know what to say." He paused for half a minute, not knowing what to tell his friend. He was lost. "Holmes… do you have feelings for me?"

Again, nothing.

Watson took this as a 'yes'.

"Well, dear me, Holmes." The doctor cleared his throat, then put his back to the door and dropped down to the floor with a 'thump'. He put his cane beside him, with his long legs straight upon the wooden floor, arms limp beside him, and altogether seeming defeated and tired. "Dear me." He took another large breath, and then let it pass through open lips. "I… you know, I think everything seems painstakingly clear now. Your aversion to Mary and your plans to make us leave each other. So, clear."

Holmes bit his tongue back in an effort to stop a sharp retort from going out of his mouth.

John clucked his tongue as he opened his mouth again. "You make it so easy to make me… enthralled." Holmes' breath hitched in his throat, though he quickly let it out, feeling ridiculous that he was caught by his friend's compliment. "Have you ever stopped and noticed that?" He didn't have time to reply, nor did he want to. Anything he might say might stop the blond man. "Everything about you is so wonderful." He paused to chuckle half-heartedly. "And of all people, you, the man with a machine for a brain – heck, even you yourself are a machine – chose me to have feelings for. I don't know what to think, Holmes. What about Irene Adler?"

"What about her? She was married." came the detective's snarky reply.

"'Married'? You care for her Holmes, married happily or not."

"I cared, Holmes. She's dead now."

"You called her 'the woman', as if she predominates the whole population of her gender."

"I'm not attracted to her physically, for Christ's sake. She's just happened to impress me."

"'Not attracted to her physically?' By Jove, I –" His cheekbones colored, as well as the tips of his ears. "What do you mean by that?"

"It's not that I don't find her face ugly, she was a pretty lass. I treat her more of a friend."

"A friend that you kiss? You don't kiss friends."

"You don't kiss friends, Watson. You don't need to; you'll fall for anyone with an amiable face and flirt with them. You are handsome, you'll get them easily. You don't need a friend to fall in love with."

"I only fell in love with Mary, other pretty women I –" The blond scrunched up his face in frustration. "We are getting away from the point, Holmes!" He fumbled with his cane, using it as a support as he stood up, and put his hand on the cool brass doorknob. "I'm going in." He then heard a click, and when he turned it in his hand, he found that he couldn't open the door. "Holmes! We are not doing this."

"Go back home to Mary, Watson. Forget this all happened, and go back to Mary. Save both of our prides." Holmes' deep voice mumbled heavily, and Watson could barely hear it. "I'm sorry I ever said that. I'm deeply sorry."

The silence that followed thereafter was so painful. Every second seemed like an entire eternity, and then some.

"I love you Holmes!" blurted Watson, face going red. He stared wide-eyed at the white door. "There you have it! I came here not to only state I'm having a baby, but that also! But we cannot be, Holmes. You cannot be my… other… 'woman', if I may. We can get arrested, convicted."

"You cannot give me everything! You can't put me down like that and then lift me up with those words and then put me down again! You don't realize how much you make my heart hurt!" Holmes right hand shook, palm facing the side of his face. His whole body was tense, and it seemed like there was an earthquake, though he knew it was only his thin frame shaking from… from what? Agh! His own thoughts earlier were voiced by dear Watson. How sad. "You only do one thing," He glared warily at the floorboards, as all his fingers folded themselves into a fist which still shook. He looked as if he was right in front of Watson. "You either make me happy, or make me sad. That's all I'm asking! You cannot throw conflicting words! That makes it immensely harder."

Watson then pressed his lips together, at loss for words once again. He hung his head, then turned to the couches. He grabbed his hat, and his coat, and shook them on. "If that's what you want, old boy, if that what's going to please you."

Holmes heard the door shut behind the doctor, and for the first time, he shed tears. He was determined to make it the last.

Yes, so much angst. Why. But expect an observant fangirl!Mrs. Hudson in the next chapter, which I'll try to finish as soon as I can. Don't expect much. Reviews are much help, and do tell me any wrong grammar.

OKAY. As you might have observe, there's such a thin line between the books and the movies in this one. Well. I don't actually know why I did that. o_o But there we have it. So to those who haven't read the books might not recognize Athelney Jones, lol. Sorry. I might have not imagined RDJ!Holmes through and through with this, so sometimes you might imagine Brett!Holmes, but I can assure you I've imagined Jude Law!Dr. Watson with every single word. And Irene Adler... yeah, I made her part a complicated one. Ugh. Whatever. I'll just stop reviewing myself and allow you to have space to do so.

And. Sorry for the crappy case. I wanted to edit it more, but, you know. Those feels. *runs around*