The Return of Sherlock Holmes – an interpretation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's original text written to mirror the period and style of the BBC's 'Sherlock' series, in which the 'Sherlock' referenced is as played by Benedict Cumberbatch, and 'John' as played by Martin Freeman.
Of course I do not own the characters used or the BBC's version of Sherlock, or Benedict or Martin, though if I did... It would go something like this. I hope you all enjoy, I've written detailed plot-points for this story, which I am quite proud of, including an entirely seperate plot for what really happened in the case they work on, and for the circumstances surrounding Sherlock's survival. Please review or leave some kind of feedback so that I know if it is worth continuing.
Thanks again for reading!
The Return of Sherlock Holmes 1; The Case of Peter Miles
It has been a long time since the day he left. I believe that as of now, it has been exactly 2 years.
I had never felt the need to speak out, never felt the need to say anything, the 'We believe in Sherlock Holmes' movement began to die out, as the followers diminished or went into hiding due to the many anonymous – and not so anonymous – threats they received from the general public. They regarded him as a freak, a monster; and now I, John Hamish Watson, feel it necessary to say this: I would never have done so, regarding the last wishes of my best friend and most admirable man, if I had not lost all sense of hope that he might one day return.
Now as Moriarty's agents stand and defend him for an honourable and courageous man I feel I must do the same, and lay bare what I know personally of the end of Sherlock Holmes. A man to whom there was no equal, and at the end I believe he may not have even found it in the infamous Jim Moriarty.
The last day I spent with Sherlock, his world was being torn down, ravaged and plundered by the people he held close to him. It was a difficult thing for him, to express any kind of feeling towards those who surrounded him, however, he did not fight it, in some ways I assumed he had all but given in knowing that no-one would support him any longer; now that Moriarty had invented some forgery of his identity.
We experienced a rather fanciful chase through the back-alleys leading away from 221B Baker Street, which I shall only say required a lot of co-ordination, and in that particular turn of events I found that us running together towards a goal was much more exciting – if that were even possible – than going our separate ways and meeting at an end.
In the moments I shared with Sherlock, I felt as though I had truly found a method of living, rather than just simply staying alive. I know that life was a tedious business for him, but he seemed happiest when he had a challenge, something to put his intellect to good use – for it was there. It was no hoax, I was with the man almost 24/7 and I saw it, I watched the deductions and the realizations dawn on his face, and the sheer joy it filled him with.
The last few words that Sherlock had said to me were to convince the public of his fraudulence as he stood atop... that building; and prepared himself for the end. Even in those moments, even as I looked up at him, a man broken and without direction – acting for, I believe – the interests of others and not his own, (for if Moriarty was dead then what should he have to fear?) nothing in this world or otherwise could have made me believe for one moment that he was not the man I had always known him to be; the amazing, most incredible, and entirely real Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective of 221B Baker Street.
My good man believe me to be, most sincerely yours –
John H Watson
John sat back from the computer screen, pausing with his finger hovering over the enter button. He wanted to write so much more, there was so much about a man like Sherlock that one could simply not fit into a small passage on a blog which was probably no longer read by anyone, he never could get the hit counter fixed. He ran a hand through his hair; he was relatively the same as he had been on the day Sherlock had died, only with a much more tired look about him.
Still as alone as ever – there had been several girlfriends, but they had all come and gone. He simply couldn't fill the void that the detective had left in his life, and trying to move in with a woman felt as though he were betraying the man's memory by replacing him with another person.
It was agonising, those days without him; the absence of his airy aloofness, his soft elegant footfalls on the carpet – their carpet. Almost, John mused, as though he had lost a limb, like a part of him had been cut off and died, left feeling incomplete and empty without the man with the long, lean legs, towering stature and high cheekbones. Lost was he, without Sherlock's nicotine spiced scent and soft brunette curls. It was marvellous, the way his face lit up whenever he would genuinely smile, and the flush that the thrill of adventure and the chase would bring to his cheeks.
No, John Watson was not gay, he was only attracted to women; most certainly. He was not gay, he did not love men – he just loved one man. Even he was unaware how strong his feelings had been, even he had never imagined or known just what the loss of Sherlock Holmes would do to him, but he knew it now, as though nothing in the world could be more wrong and more right at the same time. He loved Sherlock, and he always would.
With a heavy, mournful sigh of a man who had lost all purpose, the doctor opened up a new document to type again. This time it was with the news his readers stuck with him for, updates of crimes and the prospects of John getting involved in cases once more. Shortly after Sherlock's death, many of their readers had along with expressing their condolences, had mentioned that perhaps the ex-soldier should continue their line of work, they assured him that he had been extremely useful himself in the investigations the detective had finished. So, once again, with the forlorn half-smile of old gracing his face, John wrote.
There have been cases since Sherlock left. The most interesting by far however, is undoubtedly that of Mr Peter Miles.
Miles was a wealthy man, though it was common knowledge that his funds were ill-gotten. I believe the official explanation for his death was overdose – though I'm fairly certain that isn't the case. Miles had no reason to overdose, his life was perfectly in order and he was happily married with two daughters. All records show that he had no history of drug use or medicinal abuse. No, I am adamant that he was murdered.
I only found a few items of consequence when I visited the scene; the carpet was moved – signs of a search – there were tickets for a recent trip to Fiji, packs of playing cards, and an aquarium so large it would require professional care.
There were doctor's notes advising him on his allergies to various marine animals; no doubt in light of his holiday. I had hoped that this would prove to be cause of death; however, it went without investigation due to the time lapse between the trip and his death.
No-one entered the house other than his staff save for a visitor who left the grounds 7 hours before the time of death. No windows were opened and none of the workers entered his room or saw anyone else enter it.
If anyone has any further information or wishes to discuss please contact me; take heed that I no longer live at 221B, the amended address is at the top of the page.
John H Watson
No sooner had John published his latest entry than a message pinged up on the screen. Someone had already responded. He grumbled and clicked on it lazily, expecting the usual 'oh I'm so sorry for your loss, hope you catch the killer' but the words on screen proved to be almost too much for him. Someone was paying attention – they had not only read through what the doctor had posted, but thought it through, analyzed it and proposed new lines of investigation. John froze, his heart skipped a beat; for a moment it almost seemed like Sherlock... But it couldn't be, it wouldn't be, and so the blonde dedicated his focus to running this anonymous informant's ideas through his head.
Brilliant, genius, pure magic.
Sherlock Holmes was a solitary man at the best of times. There was only one person he ever missed, and his admiration for the military doctor, John Watson, was one of the only things that kept him to his plans. By now, almost all of Moriarty's gang had been taken care of. Moriarty himself had once referred to them as a delightful collection of Ms. There was only one of them left now, a one Sebastian Moran; loyal and lethal, a very dangerous combination. Moran was a retired military officer much like John, but unlike John he devoted his time to hunting, the craft of the gun and the deaths of men. If Sherlock were to return to 221B at any time, he would have to overcome this last obstacle – and overcome it he would. Even if it meant that he should travel once again to the other end of the world and track down a package in the Sahara desert, he would make it home, back to London, back to John, if it killed him; which on several occasions it almost had done.
The detective checked his old friend's blog daily. Often the things posted were of little consequence to him, the long overdue eulogy had enticed a stirring in the pit of his stomach.
Guilt, anger, longing, regret, bitterness, admiration?
He wasn't sure – after all, emotions had never been his strong point. All this feeling made his head ache, and so the man's slim fingers found themselves purchase on the end of a cigarette and he took a long drag.
Suddenly the screen in front of him informed him that a new entry had been posted, he had to admit even he was a little surprised. John would not usually update more than once a day. Oh but this entry was intriguing, a case, and a case that was seemingly somewhat of a challenge to the police. How long it had been since the young man had given his brain an exercise of this sort, how long it had been since he could give himself that boost, that rush of adrenaline he felt when he spoke to his companion, his only friend. The object of his attentions – and admittedly his physical desires – and the one person whose attentions he desired with similar fervour. Stimulating conversation with an attractive, kind man, that was something severely lacking in his life right now, not that Sherlock felt any form of attachment on an emotional level, oh no. It was simply admiration and appreciation that he felt for John, friendship one might go as far as to say, but the detective of 221B did not feel for other people with the intensity that one might argue he should, so that was where his emotions would stay, and where he would regard them to always stay.
Oh but how he had missed John. How he had missed him.
How he had felt the absence of the other man's ability to deduce things that perhaps Sherlock did not pick up on, he was grateful for the advice the older man gave, and though the brunette did not often show it, he was impressed with how far John could get in a case without him.
Fingers tapping over the keyboard at speed, sharp keen eyes darted back and forth over the blog entry in front of him. His smooth, full lips twisted into a smirk, some of the healthy sheen returning to his pale features as his deductions came fast and soon he had all but solved the problem presented to him. It was the least he could do to point John in the right direction, after all, that's what friends are for right?
we have never spoken before, but I must say from what you have written of Sherlock Holmes, even though he seems a great man, he surely did not solve all of these crimes without your help. Personally I believe you are correct to investigate into Miles' allergies to forms of marine life, especially with that aquarium in his home. I would see what kind of animals he is keeping, salt-water or fresh-water, and a point of interest; Peter Miles was heavily associated with a man known as 'Sebastian Moran', his name may be of importance in some manner or other. Really, just scratch beneath the surface, it cannot be that hard to tell what has happened to the man, you stopped investigating your main convictions on the whim of some police officers!
Now he would wait. Sitting back in his chair with his elbows on his knees, Sherlock put his fingertips together and rested his lips against them in thought. Come on John. Bite.
He cast a glance over at the package sitting on an old oaken end-table next to him. There were notches and gashes in the wood like the scars of a lifetime well-lived; there was room – the detective reasoned – for another yet.