HAHA, bet no one saw THIS coming!

This is just a sypnosis or, rather, a 'before' taste of what COULD happen. I mean, I've been dabbling with the idea lately and thought I really could give it a go though I will only do so if enough of you are interested.

Now I'm tired and was too lazy to review to make sure there were no silly mistakes and that I had made proper use of the verb tenses so forgive any of that while you read lol

Here's a summary of what to expect:

Sherlock has flashes of long lost memories as the Contractor though struggles to understand them. After faking his death and marching through many trials with John however, understanding the mossy ruins of a castle shrouded in darkness and finding his companion locked away in a tower is the last of his worries. All he wants is for John to be happy and for everything to go back to normal. And it does. Until one Sebastian Moran - or, rather, Thorin Oakenshield enters the picture, claiming John as Bilbo Baggins, the love of his life. As details of lost memories return to Sherlock and John, they find themselves slowly drifting apart and old emotions resurfacing. Will there be such a thing as a happy ending for a brilliant man once exiled, feared and hated through time?

IN ANY CASE, if you are interested in wanting more, be sure to review and to tell me! While you're at it, feel free to suggest a title for the story

Something went wrong during the fall.

Sherlock never spoke of it, he always tried to forget but every night since then the events replayed in his mind and summoned a painful headache upon replaying the memories. There had been a slight miscalculation that could have been fatal if it had been any worse. The people helping him fake his death and who placed down the air mat to cushion his fall had been a touch off and so, when he hit it, his head had also consequently hit the pavement. It hadn't knocked him out though it hadn't been far off. There was a deafening ringing buzzing through his ears and for a moment he was impaired and struggling to grasp reality and actuality. He recovered fairly quickly and other than that minor problem, everything went according to plan and was ultimately successful.

And yet, since then, Sherlock felt different. He truly felt as though he had died and walked away from the scene as a new man.

Or rather a different man.

An old, ancient man.

Whenever he would sleep, as rare as that would be, he would dream of a desolated castle shrouded in darkness. Though he only walked familiar halls and stairways, he knew that beyond the main gate was nothing, just encumbering blackness. The damp and mossy castle he dreamed of was a prison and, for the longest time, he knew he had been alone. However, in his dreams, he mainly found himself climbing the twirling steps of a tower to go find someone but his face always eluded him. The dream would typically end with him opening the door at the top of the tower and barely catching a glimpse of the room before the image would distort and fade. And when he woke, his heart churned in sorrow, longing and love.

For a time, it bothered him immensely. Sherlock couldn't make sense of the memories nor understand why he pictured something so medieval and fantastical. As a child, his interest and fascination was towards pirates and their life styles, not knights, kings and queens. He never felt remotely interested in fairy tales or things of the like. And yet the dreams persisted and perplexed him all the more.

Never one to abandon the pursuit for the truth, Sherlock never stopped trying to understand. During the three years he spent away from John in an attempt to dissemble Moriarty's evil organisation, he also went to therapists. Of course, they proved to be idiotic and as unhelpful as the books he gathered from many libraries but one or two had been of some use. Though the last he had seen before resolving to never visit one ever again had suggested his dreams and visions were linked to a past life. He had immediately gotten off the sofa on which he had laid and proceeded to insult the woman and scorn her for taking the money of her patients and feeding them absurdities.

Strangely though, the suggestion never left the back of his mind. Logically, he knew it was impossible. Past lives were unproven things and a ridiculous theory that could never be proven. Conversely, for some reason, a part of him thought otherwise. A part of him almost wanted to suggest that the theory was one to look into.

But he didn't.

He had more important things to take care of over the year. As much as it was necessary to destroy what was left of Moriarty's legacy, Sherlock loathed being away from London for too long and wished to return as soon as possible. He hated having to keep John in the dark about his activities even if he knew it was to protect him.

John.

Whenever he thought about his friend during his international travels, his heart almost fluttered. As surprising as it might seem to some within his social circle, Sherlock wasn't as completely emotionally handicapped as one would think. He felt love and only chose not to display or dabble on it merely because it impaired his efficiency in the line of his work. When solving murders and bringing criminals to justice, one ought to have a clear mind otherwise they might miss some important details. And Sherlock valued details.

Regardless of his decision to remain deadpan in the face of love or any emotion akin to it, he felt something for John. He wasn't quite sure it could be considered love just yet seeing as he had never truly felt attracted to another boy in such a manner but there was definitely something there. Sherlock simply couldn't just identify what it was.

Often times he found himself wondering how his friend was fairing in London. Mycroft refuse to give him any news on him or anyone else for that matter and though Sherlock understood the necessity behind the action, he nonetheless remained curious.

He wondered if John had actually mourned him.

Had John cried?

For how long?

Had he resumed the previous sessions he once had with his psychologist?

So many questions piled up and no answers were given though Sherlock knew exactly how to obtain them. He had to return to London but he could only do so once his mission was accomplished.

And so, three years later, he had finally finished his mission. Destroying the last pillar of Moriarty's organization somewhere in Siberia before Mycroft intervened and finally delivered the good news. Words failed to describe or conjure a fathomable idea to how happy and relieved he felt to hear his brother make such an announcement.

But the emotion didn't last.

"A lot has changed." Mycroft had said as he watched Sherlock slip on a freshly cleaned shirt, "London wasn't as you left it."

"Of course it isn't." Sherlock had agreed with a smirk, "She rarely sleeps and is always buzzing with life. I would have been surprised to hear otherwise."

"Then you understand that the same goes with your friends." Mycroft had stated more than asked, "They've all moved on. John has a new life now."

"Doubt that." He had snorted, "I am his life."

"He doesn't live on Baker Street anymore." Mycroft had added, "Your flat has been empty for a good long while now."

"Nonetheless," Sherlock had insisted though his certainty had begun to waver, "As soon as he sees me, he'll come running back. I know him."

"Perhaps you did." Mycroft had said softly, "Once…"

Upon returning to London, the degree of what Mycroft had implied sunk into Sherlock. Many things had changed indeed. John was engaged to be wed to one Marry Morstan and had long since accepted Sherlock's death. Though there had been a scuffle and ill emotions as they were reunited, things settled themselves relatively quickly but things never went back to normal.

John didn't come running back and never left Mary's side.

And, for some reason, Sherlock had begun to live through a familiar emotion that he had no memory experiencing during his lifetime.

Sadness.

Love.

Failing hope.

Loneliness.

He had remembered the empty, mossy ruin of a castle and the absence of other life. The feeling he had felt in his dreams when the companion in the tower was no more.

But Sherlock refused to let the sadness consumed him and had for himself to find happiness within John's happiness. Mary was a lovely woman, smart, bright and beautiful. She was kind, benevolent and one of the rare humans that Sherlock found himself respecting. He soon fell very much in love with her and hoped that her union with John would last and that he would be one of the lucky few to witness their love blossom over the course of their lives together.

Things hadn't gone back to the way they were, but Sherlock had managed to find new happiness.

However nothing is permanent and good things always come to an end.

Moriarty had never died. Just as Sherlock had, he had faked his own death and returned a couple of years later. Though Sherlock and John had managed to survive him again and assure his death, Mary hadn't. She had died in John's arms after having stopped Moriarty once and for all.

It had been after her passing that things had gone to the way they were before Sherlock had faked his death. John had returned to Baker Street and continued to assist him with cases though he was significantly different. A part of him had died with Mary; Sherlock saw it as clear as day. Though he wasn't one for sentimental moments or display of general emotion, he had made an effort to comfort John in his own way.

Strangely – though Sherlock wasn't particularly sure what he was expecting – John responded to him. And as time went by, the two found themselves falling into a more intimate relationship. It had initially been the little things – standing closer together, brushing hands and fingers, and sharing glances. Eventually it had evolved into handholding and brief yet soft kisses. From that point, things had developed more quickly and within a month after their first actual kiss, Sherlock and John declared themselves a couple.

A certain emotion welled inside Sherlock at that moment. He remembered his dreams, the ones with his faceless companion locked away in a tower and the emotions he felt. He was truly happy and had felt as though the feelings he dreamed of experiencing had finally become reality. Seeing as their greatest foes were finally defeated, Sherlock heavily doubted anything would break them apart from then on. Surely they would live happily ever after like in the children stories.

And then one Sebastian Moran happened.

Or rather, one Thorin Oakenshield.