As per usual, I do not own these wonderful characters. They belong to the amazing imagination of Doyle and their reincarnates belong to the wonderul minds of Gatiss and Moffat.


One man I can never meet. Him, I would like to give my whole heart to.

-The Lake House


I heard the soft, hesitant footsteps of Mrs. Hudson come from the upstairs room. She'd be tidying it up again; she hopes I will let someone in. I sat up from the tubes in front of me; something was different about her steps, the hesitation was caution, she was carrying something.

"Sherlock, have you been up in that room? I've found this and it looked like something you'd leave lying around."

She entered the kitchen with a worn, leather bound journal in her hands. It definitely holds a distinct age about it, but the owner also took great care of it. A prized possession then, so what was it doing in that room? I'd looked through everything, even under the loose floorboards, how could I miss that?

"That's where it is. I'd been looking for that for ages, thank you."

We both knew I was lying, but bless her heart she left the journal on the edge of the table and left with a swift bid of good evening. I turned my attention back to the middle tube and smiled—Lestrade will be thrilled I've solved yet another of his cases. I sent him the text telling him that the husband is free to walk away; it's the wife's younger brother who should be behind bars. Dreadful business people let themselves get into with matters of their hearts and all of those emotions. Love triangles are messy, they never end well.

My gaze then shifted to the worn journal sitting there, taunting me with the questions of whose it is, where did it come from? I could make out the engraving of a name on the bottom right-hand corner, that dictates ownership, but where did it come from? I would notice if another person was living in the unused room upstairs. Or even if someone were to have just randomly dropped it off, why that room specifically? Nothing is missing, yet something was left behind.

I stood and slowly made my way around the table, making sure to keep my gloves on, I wouldn't want to contaminate whatever fingerprints are there, well besides Mrs. Hudson's. There is a name: Dr. John H. Watson. I let a fingertip trace over the name, why did it seem familiar? I don't recall ever meeting a Dr. Watson, let alone ever hearing Mrs. Hudson mention the name. I pulled on the leather strap keeping the journal closed, gently opening it; the scrawl that implied ownership once more caused a sense of belonging to course through me.


A/N: Hi. This is my first time posting in the Sherlock fandom (I'm partial to Harry Potter & Stargate Atlantis)...I will not even pretend like I've the talent to be here and taking on such wonderful characters. I can't even come up with a plot of my own, so as cheesy and lame as that admittance is, I am using the premise of the film the quote at the top is from. However, I will be adding my own touches here and there as is the notion when one writes fanfiction.

Feel free to tell me if you hate it, love it, want to read more of it...I'm open to any kind of feedback. :)