A/N: This is, I admitt, pretty dark for me. Sorry.

Disclaimer: I do not own any Sherlock Holmes character.

WARNING: This story contains character death, OOC, and drug abuse and reference. Please do not read if this is too, well, dark. Thank you.


I stared at the needle in silence for nearly ten minutes, even though it felt like it had been an hour, debating whether or not to inject myself with the clear liquid into my system or not.

Finally, despite my last shred of reasoning not to, I plunged the needle into my arm and pressed the piston. The initial fleeting pain of the sharp tip piercing my skin was nothing to the pain that threatened to tear my heart in two.

Two years had passed since Holmes's death over the Richenbach. Holmes. His name still brings back good and painful memories. And my poor Mary, who had died only a week ago by consumption...

I will be joining you soon, was my last thought before the eternal darkness took me.

On his way back to England, Sherlock Holmes read the following headline:


He lowered the paper and closed his eyes in grief. "My dear friend... What have I done?"

The End

A/N: Told you it would be sad, but at least it was short. Please tell me how I did.