As time wore on, no names were yet announced. The day passed with the news of the sinking upon everyone's list, the disaster making headlines for three days straight before at last some silly little murder took its place as the subject of the popular gossip. When at long last the details of the sinking all seemed to be wrapping up, save for the complete list of the confirmed dead, what news they could gather appeared in nothing more than a small column, hidden away in the mess of yesterday's new on the back of the forth page. Now that the actual news had been more or less confirmed, detailing the sinking, the storm, and the lack of rescue, the conspiracy theories began to erupt. Some said that it was an attack by the Germans, others suggested that perhaps another cargo ship had rammed into it with the purpose of stifling any competition on their way to the Philippines. The way that the ship had sunk was not necessarily my concern; in fact I could not have cared less about which one of the Norse sea gods might have had a vengeance against the particular cargo. All I cared about was the news of the survivors. These rumors flew not through the paper, but my word of mouth. All of the sudden survivor stories began popping up in every nautical bar I could think to visit, detailing a lifeboat pulling into Italy, Turkey, Algeria, even in places as close as France! What time I did not spend hiding within my room I spent searching for answers, going to the docks and nearly terrorizing any one I could find for information regarding possible survivors. Each day I heard a different story, each day they seemed to come up with something new, always just slightly more outrageous. I left the sailors alone now, deciding that the last story I was going to hear was the one detailing a man riding out of the waves on a dolphin. If there was hope, perhaps I would let it come to me. If John was alive he would be returning, any day now returning! I would wait, I suppose, for my job was particularly limited here on the sad side of London. All the while I read the newspapers, my eyes not daring to linger to the familiar poetry section, the section which might have saved my John Watson if not for my own carelessness! Was it really I who had determined such a fate for him, was it really my fault for having neglected his notebook and doomed him to board that ship? Well the blame could span so many ways, I could be mad at myself for losing his poem, I could be mad at Mary for not securing him a job with her father, I could even be mad at Poseidon for his apparent 'wrath against the spice trade'. But whoever I placed the guilt on did not seem to do much difference, for I was continually fighting off feelings of despair, of self hatred...and none of it was doing any difference. No matter who I ground my teeth for, no matter who I vowed to beat, well John still didn't show. Whosever fault it was...well perhaps it was a blame that was shared. It would be no use, wallowing in my misery without a solid goal in mind. I must set my sights onto the more positive side; I needed to focus not on why John was on that ship, rather how he could have gotten off of it. As the days passed I found it more and more unbelievable that such a man could have sunken with the wreckage. I didn't believe that the hands of fate, the very hands that had brought us together in the first place, would allow him to float ever downwards into the darkness. Was there not a purpose in our lives; was there not some destiny that had not yet been fulfilled? No, no John was supposed to be something far more meaningful than a name on the list of casualties. He was destined to be a poet, destined to fame! He was supposed to love me until our dying days, not leave me to wallow in my loneliness until at last death took my by the hand. There were factors at play, more powerful beings than I could ever fathom...there must be. No one would curse John Watson to the depths; no divine being could ever be so cruel. John had always claimed that his fate was linked to the sea, though I believed wholeheartedly that he was instead linked to me. I would not let that churning body of water take away from me the only man I had ever loved...I would not let our story end here. And what power did I have in it, what difference did my own optimism make? Well...perhaps no difference at all. Though I felt as though I would need some purpose, if not to take the stance of a grieving widow. I was connected in all of this, and it was my mindset alone that would set me apart. I had to be the hero in this story, or else it would never be worth telling. I had to take action, dare our little fairytale end there, and end in tragedy. 

 The nights were growing ever longer, for winter had set in once more and sent the London streets covered with layers of thick fluffy snow. The snow was perfectly enjoyable for the first day that it lay there, but eventually it soaked up the urine from the carriage horses, the mud from the pedestrian's shoes, the beer from the drunkards who roamed in the nighttime under the dimmed light of the street lamps. It seemed that the snow never stayed white in London, for even when it fell it had a habit of collecting the smog from the air, sometimes falling in a dark grey tint instead of the cheerful white you would illustrate onto a Christmas card. Winter was supposed to be a happy time, at least the beginning of it when the holidays were still in sight. There was a cheer in the air, carols being sung, mistletoe being hung. It had been about two weeks since John's boat had sank, long enough so that it didn't make the paper any longer. Nevertheless I searched, time and again, looking for at least any rumors pertaining to any sort of life boat which may have escaped to the shore. I had no idea where the ship had gone down, though I figured that it would take more than rumors to prove my theory. There would come a time, I suspected, that I could not trust reporters to the do the work that I was beginning to rely on. One of these days I may just have to leave the English boarders myself, in hopes that my journey may be more successful than John's. As with most nights I sat with Victor in front of the fire, the sun having long since set under the horizon and the firelight producing the only flickering orange glow. By this meager illumination I squinted towards the paper, trying to read the small ink blots that described the events of what seemed to be a robbery. Disappointed, I moved onto the next small column. 

"What do you read that thing for, Sherlock? Are you expecting them to take back their headline, and claim that they were wrong in assuming the ship had sank?" Victor wondered, tapping his fingers anxiously on the arms of his chair and hastening a cigarette into his mouth. I looked towards him curiously, at first noticing that his shirt cuff was undisturbed around his wrist. It was nearly eight o'clock, and the laudanum had not yet come out. Perhaps we were taking a step in the right direction, then. Perhaps he was looking to make a change in his life.
"I'm looking for lifeboats." I admitted, at last throwing the paper aside so that my attention could be wholly fixed on my companion across the coffee table. He managed a smile, though he looked incredibly tense.
"Lifeboats? Do you assume that what a large vessel could not survive a little wooden skiff could?" Victor chuckled.
"Perhaps it could have, if the seas had died down." I defended. "They only would have needed it to float for about an hour, those storms don't last long, do they? And besides, the little boat could surely ride the waves better."
"I think you are looking where hope has been lost, Sherlock." Victor sighed, tapping his cigarette ashes into the tray and looking mournfully towards the flames of the fire. He was distracted; I could see it in his eyes.
"You may think me crazy but...well I know there was a lifeboat. I saw it myself." I admitted at last, feeling the need to let at least one person into my head. It was maddening, trying to keep such a substantial theory entirely to myself. Victor's eyes widened, though it was not necessarily in interest.
"Pray tell, in what context were you a witness?" Victor mumbled. He looked more entertained with the idea of how I might have seen such a thing, rather than the idea that John may have survived the ship wreck after all. I sat forward, leaning upon my knees so as to paint the picture properly. Concentrating hard, I revisited that lingering dream of mine behind the closed lids of my eyes. Yes, it materialized perfectly. There was the bow of the ship, afire and sinking into the depths, and there was that little lifeboat filled to the brim with survivors. One of those heads must belong to John; it was unfathomable that he would not have figured out some way onto the little wooden boat.
"I saw it in a dream." I admitted quietly, reopening my eyes and appearing again in the present day. "Not just any dream, it was a reoccurring dream. I had it the night Mary came; in fact she woke me from it. And in that dream I saw a boat, the same boat that John had gone away in, sinking. And beside it was a lifeboat."
"Sherlock..." Victor sighed, shaking his head slowly as if he felt he needed to choose his words carefully. He reminded me in that moment of my father, who was always so careful about explaining to me the impracticality of my actions. "Sherlock, you are really believing in such things? Fairytales, dare I say it? If your dream had been real, well then all dreams must be real. Therefore, I must already be poet laureate."
"Is that really what you dream about?" I wondered, branching off topic now so as to delve into a quick character study into my companion's head. Victor scoffed, shaking his head in dismissal of the question.
"That's beside the point, Sherlock. The point is that you shouldn't obsess over this...well I wouldn't even call it a sliver of hope! I would call it a fantasy of hope. Don't focus on it, don't pray for it. Reality has a way of forcing you to ignore your feelings, on the pretenses that they're not justified. Forget this, Sherlock...forget him." Victor suggested. I frowned, shaking my head and grabbing again at the newspaper. His conversation really was growing tiresome, for the words he seemed determined to say were all but the very words I didn't need to hear. I was set on my own path; I had developed my own agenda. If he was daring to say anything different, well I was sure it was driven by some selfish motivator. He never liked John, obviously he saw him as nothing more than competition. And so why would he allow me to cling to hope, knowing that so long as I believed my own theories I would never be able to set my heart aside to another person? I frowned as I unfolded the paper, deciding that his skepticism didn't deserve an answer from me. I figured that my actions spoke of my thoughts quite clearly, and while I couldn't directly observe his reaction I heard from where he was sitting the distinctive taps of angry finger nails upon the wooden arm of a chair.
"Not on the laudanum tonight, are you?" I wondered after a long while of tense silence. Victor gave a little noise of protest, as if hearing the name of the drug tempted him all the more to shoot it up his arm.
"Not tonight." he agreed anxiously. "I thought that...well I had the impression that you didn't approve."
"Oh yes? Well, that's been my reaction for the entirety of my stay here. Why the sudden change of heart? The sudden interest in my opinion?" I wondered, folding down the newspaper if only for a moment and staring rather intensely at my host. Victor merely sighed, a rather remorseful sigh at that, and looked towards me with wide, regretful eyes.
"You know why." He muttered at last, before diverting his gaze back towards the dying embers of the fire. I nodded, feeling my cheeks grow rather hot as I shuffled down into my seat, pushing the newspaper back up so that I did not have to stare too long at my sorry friend. I wasn't sure what to feel on the context of Victor's love for me, well certainly my opinion on the matter had shifted quite drastically throughout my life with him. I knew that he was applying a bit of pressure upon me, not only bringing up the subject more frequently but obviously trying to better himself in my eyes, almost as if to prove to me that he could change to be whatever I desired him to be. Though I would not have it, no matter which form Victor Trevor tried to take I would not give up on John so easily, and even if that poor sailor was confirmed to be dead...well even then I wasn't sure if I could move on. Victor was a pleasant friend, good company for a long and wordless night, though I figured the closer you grew to such a man the more dangerous he became. And Victor's heart, well needless to say it seemed to be a very fragile thing to handle. Something I didn't entirely trust myself with, should I somehow break it. As the night wore on our conversation never picked up, though my eyes were still wide and my brain was turning ever more in my skull, trying to wrap itself around any theory it could create to validate the life of my long lost friend. Nothing could convince me that I had lost him, nothing could convince me that he was somewhere on the sea floor, being picked apart by fish and snails somewhere in the Mediterranean. The thought made my stomach turn, though I knew in my heart it was just the image of the worst case scenario, the scenario which may have been should we not have been destined for something more influential than a mere kiss, nothing more. This was a love story, I knew it was! Whichever powers resided in Heaven, they had pushed us together to make a story, to prove a point, to send a message. We were drawn together to create change in this world, not to suffer at either end of a tragedy. Perhaps I was going mad in those days, mad with my own grief that I couldn't even accept. Though I was sure of it, and in those couple of moments I do believe that I was still happy. Emotions are like a glass ball, rolling back and forth down a sloping table, one that was hardly ever perfectly straight, so as to keep the feelings in line and constant. One little jerk one way or another could send what should have been a calm, peaceful existence into one of utter turmoil. I had been so used to being steady these past couple of days, I couldn't claim to be perfectly happy but I was at least content in the hope that I was harboring within my chest. I was safe at the home I had made for myself, and if not perfectly thrilled at my company I did not yet despise him. The table, Doctor, was about to tilt.
"Are you not going to bed?" I wondered, noticing that the clock above the mantle read nearly midnight, and still my sober host remained.
"I didn't wish to be rude." Victor muttered. "I was waiting for you." His voice was thick and slurred, as if my question had woken him from what must have been an open eyed sleep.
"You can be rude, Victor. You've done it before." I assured him. Victor chuckled, though with that suggestion he seemed ever more determined to stay. I nodded, throwing aside my newspaper and getting to my feet to tend to the fire. Mrs. Turner had probably already fallen to sleep, and so I was sure that she would not be around to tend to the mere embers that were attempting to illuminate the entire room. Victor seemed to have lulled himself back to sleep in the wake of my silence, though I did not dare wake him. Perhaps he would find sobriety much easier to handle when he was asleep.
"Sherlock, let me do it." Victor whispered, almost as soon as I had decided not to mind him. His voice sounded almost incoherent, though I gave him a quick look back from where I stood with the fire poker in my hand.
"You're asleep." I debated.
"Am not." Victor muttered, turning in his chair and finding himself in ever the more comfortable position. His argument let off there, when his eyes sank back into their lids and his breaths became slightly more obvious, deep sighs that were lulling him back into his dreams. I looked at him quietly, allowing some softness to appear within my gaze. It was easier to love him when he was not moving, nor talking at all. Sometimes he would remind me of what I used to think of him, that rather optimistic, boyish romance that I had in mind all those years ago. Though those feelings were just memories, a love shaken by reality and a fantasy forgotten. I turned away from him, concentrating my attention again onto the fire. I prodded a couple of times at the embers, smoldering pieces of wood that were sitting atop a large pile of ash. I assumed that by turning the pile over a couple of times I could at least start up another blaze, one that was prominent enough to catch whichever logs I threw in afterwards. The prong of the poker began to glow hot as I poked around, turning over the pile of ashes that must have dated at least back to last month. Mrs. Turner really seemed to be neglecting her fireside duties. Most of what was unearthed throughout the ash was just flakes of bark, pieces of wood that matched almost perfectly to the rest of Victor's winter supply. I was just about to reach for a log, satisfied with the fire that was now crackling throughout the forgotten and protected shards of wood, when something that didn't look like bark suddenly caught my attention. It was a piece of leather, from the looks of it, a charred thing around the edges but half covered in ash, so as to protect it from the fire that had been blazing overtop of it since it found its way into the hearth. Curiosity overtook me, and for a moment I concentrated my efforts on unearthing it from the flames, pushing it out of the ash and making a considerable mess on the hardwood floors. Though before long it fell from the grate, landing in its own pile of ash and, despite the smoldering embers, looked safe enough to touch. I took it up in my hand, still with the poker burning red hot against the bricks of the fire, and examined my treasure. It was a strange thing to find in the fireplace, an undeniable piece of leather. What had Mrs. Turner been putting in there, some of Victor's old belts? Though as my curious fingers began to examine more closely, I was beginning to realize that what I had found could not be explained so simply, nor so innocently. As I began to notice the color of the leather, revealed as my fingers brushed away the darkened hue of the ash, I noticed a faint blue tint. A tint that I had only ever seen dyed upon leather once in my life...in the hands of a boy I used to know. At first I couldn't make the connection, I sat there by the fireside for some time, the poker now forgotten but still lying flaming within the ashes, turning the piece of leather over within my hands. I knew what it was; now it was ever so familiar. Though what remained of John's lost notebook really wouldn't help either of us now, the ashes that it was surrounded with surely were made up of scraps of paper and ink, the very same that were supposed to keep John off of the ship bound for tragedy.