(Third-Person View: )

John Watson sat in a chair as the rain poured down outside the window and thunder rumbled. He looked tired and his face was full of pain.

“Why today?” Ella asked gently. John frowned enquiringly. His therapist was sitting opposite him.

“D’you want to hear me say it?” John asked.

“Eighteen months since our last appointment.” Ella noted.

“D’you read the papers?” John asked, his voice becoming quietly angry.

“Sometimes.” Ella nodded.

“Mmm, and you watch telly? You know why I’m here.” John replied in the same tone as before. There was a pained groan in his voice as he ended the sentence. “I’m here because...” His voice broke and he couldn’t continue. He looked down, swallowing hard as he fought not to weep. Ella leaned forward sympathetically.

“What happened, John?” She insisted. John closed his eyes, trying to get control of himself, then looked up at her again, his eyes full of loss. He cleared his throat and breathed heavily.

“Sher...” He began, his voice breaking. He couldn’t continue and he cleared his throat again, swallowing hard.

“You need to get it out.” Ella encouraged gently.

“My best friend... Sherlock Holmes...” He began, softly, his voice full of pain and tears. He sniffed, forcing his voice through the anguish. “...is dead.” His voice broke the worst that time, and he broke down and began to cry.

THREE MONTHS EARLIER

(Alice’s POV: )

In the art gallery, the Director of the gallery was finishing his long, tiring speech as he stood near the painting.

“Falls of the Reichenbach, Turner’s masterpiece, thankfully recovered owing to the prodigious talent of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his accomplices.” The patrons applauded. John was standing nearest to the painting, Sherlock next and me last, trying to hide behind him. (My family and I were getting attention that we didn’t need or want.) The Director gave a small gift-wrapped box to Sherlock. “A small token of our gratitude.” He said proudly. Sherlock took the box and looked at it, me leaning forward and doing the same.

“Diamond cufflinks. All my cuffs have buttons.” He said flatly.

“He means thank you.” John and I said simultaneously to the director. It was a regular occurrence for us.

“Do I?” Sherlock asked smugly.

“Just say it.” John said discreetly.

“Thank you.” He said insincerely to the director. He started to walk away, me getting ready to trail behind, but John held him back.

“Hey.” He said quietly. Sherlock stopped unwillingly as the press started taking photographs. I tried hard to not flip the finger for the camera.

AFTER ANOTHER CASE

Outside the banker’s –who’s name I had not cared to learn- house, the rescued man was standing with his arms around his wife and young son as the press filmed and photographed them while Sherlock, John, and I stood uncomfortably nearby.

“Back together with my family after my terrifying ordeal; and we have one person to thank for my deliverance – Sherlock Holmes.” The father said sincerely. As the public applauded, the boy smiled and offered a small gift-wrapped box to Sherlock. He took it and rattled it briefly.

“Tie pin. I don’t wear ties.” He said to John and I. The son was taken aback and I hid a smile.

“Shh.” John scolded.

AFTER YET ANOTHER CASE

At Scotland Yard, where D.I. Greg Lestrade was addressing a press conference, Sherlock, John and I, again, stood nearby.  D.S. Sally Donovan and Doctor Who-Cares-What-His-First-Name-Is Anderson were at the back of the room.

“Peter Ricoletti: number one on Interpol’s Most Wanted list since nineteen eighty-two. But we got him; and there’s one person we have to thank for giving us the decisive leads... with all his customary diplomacy and tact…!” Lestrade said, sounding like he didn’t want to say anything on the matter. Sherlock smiled insincerely towards Greg while John leaned closer to Sherlock and spoke quietly.

“Sarcasm.” He said, somewhat happily.

“Yes.” Sherlock and I replied dryly. As the press applauded, Greg walked over to Sherlock and gave him a gift-wrapped package, smiling cheerfully.

“We all chipped in.” He said with fake cheerfulness. As Sherlock tore open the wrapping paper, Sally and Anderson grinned expectantly. He pulled out a deerstalker hat and I grinned.

“Oh!” Sherlock announced, trying to smile.

“Put the hat on!” A reporter shouted. “Put the hat on!” Another said.

“Yeah, Sherlock, put it on!” Lestrade said with fake encouragement. Sherlock looked at the reporters as if he’d like to kill them, which I’m sure he would. John cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“Just get it over with.” He said discreetly. I grinned at him.

“Go on.” I added, grinning. Glowering at us, Sherlock shoved the wrapping paper into John’s hands, and then unhappily put the hat on his head. Flashbulbs went mad and everyone applauded, including me. At the back of the room, Sally clapped with sarcastic delight as Anderson grinned smugly. I freely flipped them off, making the flashbulbs go crazy again. John gave me a furious look.

                Sherlock smiled at the press through gritted teeth and glanced at Greg, as if promising him a world of pain later.

221B BAKER STREET

John was sitting on the sofa, reading the papers while Sherlock, wearing his blue dressing gown over his shirt and trousers, stomped across the room and threw the Daily Star onto the pile of newspapers on the coffee table. I tiredly looked up from Sherlock’s chair, where I had been wandering my mind palace.

“‘Boffin’. ‘Boffin Sherlock Holmes’.” He complained indignantly.

“Everybody gets one.” John said sympathetically.

“One what?” The detective asked cluelessly.

“Tabloid nickname: ‘SuBo’; ‘Nasty Nick’. Shouldn’t worry – we’ll probably get one soon.” I clarified.

“Page five, column six, first sentence.” Sherlock replied, ignoring my comment. John turned to the relevant page. Sherlock went over to the fireplace, picked up the deerstalker, held it up and punched it angrily.

“Why is it always the hat photograph?” He mumbled.

“‘Bachelor John Watson’?” John asked, looking at the newspaper. At that I got up and walked over to him, sitting myself down and looking for something on myself.

“What sort of hat is it anyway?” Sherlock continued.

“‘Bachelor’? What the h*** are they implying?” John said, speaking in the same manner as Sherlock.

 “Is it a cap? Why has it got two fronts?” Sherlock asked, holding up the hat and twisting it back and forth rapidly. I found a couple photographs of me, one of me in the bowler hat, and the other of me flipping the finger. I groaned as I read the caption.

“It’s a deerstalker.” John told Sherlock, glancing up briefly. He read more of the article. “‘Frequently seen in the company of bachelor John Watson’...” He read aloud.

“You stalk a deer with a hat? What are you gonna do – throw it?” Sherlock asked, still mumbling.

“Shadow Alice White!?” I shouted. “What’s that supposed to mean!?” I complained. I quickly continued reading, looking for an explanation.

“’...confirmed bachelor John Watson’!” John said, looking at another part of the article. He looked over to mine. “Really?” He asked sceptically. I ignored him and continued skimming the articles.

“Some sort of death frisbee?” I looked up at the man playing with the hat. He had a point. It was a rather stupid hat.

“Okay, this is too much. We need to be more careful.” John decided, sitting up.

“It’s got flaps... ear flaps. It’s an ear hat, John.” Sherlock announced. He accurately skimmed the hat across the room to John, who didn’t even have to lift his hand to catch it. “What do you mean, ‘more careful’?” Sherlock asked.

“I mean this isn’t a deerstalker now; it’s a Sherlock Holmes hat. I mean that you’re not exactly a private detective anymore.” He held his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “You’re this far from famous.”

“Oh, it’ll pass.” Sherlock dismissed. He slumped down into his armchair and folded his hands in the prayer position in front of his mouth.

“It’d better pass. The press will turn, Sherlock. They always turn, and they’ll turn on you.”

“Shadow White… Honestly.” I said under my breath, frustration clear. I got up, taking that specific newspaper with me into the kitchen as Sherlock lowered his hands and looked more closely at John.

“It really bothers you.” Sherlock said quietly.

“What?” John asked. I found Sherlock’s secret stash of matches and went over to the sink.

“What people say.” The tall one replied.

“Yes.” The short one confirmed. I emptied the dishes out of the sink and threw the paper in.

“About me? I don’t understand – why would it upset you?” Sherlock asked innocently. I froze. We hadn’t come up on this before. He didn’t understand that John and I wanted to protect him. John held his gaze for a moment, then looked away.

“Just try to keep a low profile. Find yourself a little case this week. Stay out of the news.” John ordered. I lit the match.

A little while later, a phone in the living room trilled a text alert. Sherlock was sitting at the table in the kitchen, looking into his microscope. I was in Sherlock’s chair, wandering my Mind Palace -or, Mind Forest, as I preferred to call it- once again. John came along the corridor leading from Sherlock’s bedroom with wet hair, wearing a bathrobe and towelling the back of his neck dry.

“It’s your phone.” John announced.

“Yes, thank you John. We needed an announcement.” I said sarcastically, not opening my eyes.

“Mm. Keeps doing that.” Sherlock answered disinterestedly. John walked into the living room past the body in the suit -which was hanging by its neck from the ceiling- and sat down in his chair, picking up a newspaper. The body swayed gently in the breeze.

“So, did you two just talk to him for a really long time? Tag team?” John asked, not even looking up at the body. Sherlock looked up and glanced across to the body, or mannequin, as it really was.

“Oh. Henry Fishgard-” I began.

“-never committed suicide.” Sherlock interrupted. John gave me a look as Sherlock picked up an old hardback book from the table and slammed it shut in a flurry of dust before going back to his microscope. “Bow Street Runners: missed everything.” He continued.

“Pressing case, is it?” John asked sarcastically.

“They’re all pressing ’til they’re solved.” I said dryly.

There we go! The beginning of the end! I realized that this is going to be the first book I have ever finished. I am excited but horrified at the same time. Anyway, enjoy, vote, and comment fun peoples! =)