Cross My Heart & Hope to Die

The adventures in 221B continue as someone close to Sherlock and Watson is murdered and a mysterious girl turns up on Baker Street just a few days after the funeral. A series of clues lead them to a baffling case of 13 killings. Moriarty? He's dead, but Sherlock is convinced he is connected to the case.


1. Chapter 1 ~ Condemned Condolences


~ One ~

Condemned Condolences


    I'm sorry for your loss, I truly am.

    She was such an amazing person.

    I give my condolences to you and Mr. Holmes.

    John was sick and tired of everything they had said and continued to say. He didn't want their pity, their sympathy. All he wanted was to be alone. John even wished his thoughts could magically disappear for a while, so he could run after her into the light. She was gone. John only wanted one thing from her; a miracle. "Just, stop being dead." John whispered, staring blankly at the coffin, secretly hoping it was empty and that she'd be watching him right now with a smile on her face. John's world used to light up at the sight of her smile. He couldn't help but wonder what life would be like without her by his side. A tear rolled gently down his cheek as someone in the room began to speak.

    "She was one in a billion. A single star in an infinite cosmos. What can I say? She lit up my world as much as she did John's..." It was Sherlock. He'd always been a quiet soul, with the exception of showing off, but over the last few days, even more so. John hadn't expected Sherlock to be quite so bothered by the situation, given his somewhat unsentimental personality. "Our adventures together have proven to be that of a storyteller's. Three heroes joined in unison, saving the world one day at a time. It's a surprise that she even had time to make me a cup of tea in amongst all the amazing things she did all the while she knew me. John Watson was and is to this day, a very lucky man indeed." For the first time since... Well, the beginning of time as far as John knew, Sherlock's voice cracked, his face trying hard to hide his grief.

   The air in the room was stagnant, despite the tons of flower arrangements scattered along the perimeter. The sun shone brilliantly and the iridescent colour of the spring day under its glare was offensively bright and cheerful. It was as if they conspired to show John how the world would go on without her. It shouldn't. Everything should be as grey and foggy as his emotions, it should be cold and damp with silent air. But the birds still sang and the flowers still bloomed. It was wrong, the world was wrong. Just like all the people sat there with John, even those closest to him. They all had sympathy laced in their eyes, the kind John resented. The only one he truly trusted, the one who's eyes were not laced with sympathy, but pain. Sherlock. He loved her too. Neither of them were ready to let go, but John was determined this time.

    "We can get through this," he whispered to himself, blinking the water out of his eyes. Nevertheless, a tear carelessly rolled down his cheek, followed by a tidal wave of others. "We can get through this together." He finished, looking up at Sherlock. John sat on the front row of benches, her floral scarf resting in his hands. It smelled like her. Her perfume, sweet and pure. Just like she was. Although the memory of her was light and radiant and full of love, John's world was shattering, glass shards spinning like a hurricane and tearing his soul apart. In some ways, he wanted to let it. He wanted to leave the world behind. He wanted to leave his haunting memories of  the war in Afghanistan. His insanity, his pain. All he wanted was for her to return, to see her beautiful smile. But then he remembered the single thing still here that kept him as who he was. He was staring right at him.

    Sherlock discreetly blinked the tears from his eyes, flattened out his papers and shuffled his feet uncomfortably. "She saved John's life in times that I couldn't. And for that I am eternally grateful. Of course, she did have her flaws, as you humans do. She was renowned for giving John a telling off all too often." John smiled, remembering all the times he'd been told off for being incapable of doing useful things. "Although, having known John for some time, he probably deserved it." A wave of feeble laughter filled the room. It felt odd, given the circumstances. Here they were, with a coffin lying in front of them, flowers and black suits with posh ties. Laughter seemed alien at such a time.

   John locked gaze with Sherlock who continued to speak, with his eyes as well as his voice. John was a friend in need, and Sherlock promised to be there every step of the way. It didn't take a Consulting Detective to work that one out. John was infinitely indebted to his friend, he knew that much. And still, as he sat there, now staring at the coffin, he too felt lifeless. Like a skeleton; no lungs to scream with and no heart to love with.


    "Rest in peace, Mary Elizabeth Watson." Sherlock finished.


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