Sherlock Holmes- A Study in Blood

Chapter 1

A/N: Hello and welcome. This story has been years in the making and it is finally complete. Of all the fanfiction that I've written, I am perhaps the most proud of this dear story of mine. I hope you enjoy it too, dear reader.

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Sometimes, being a friend means  mastering the art of timing. There is a time for silence. A time to let  go and allow people to hurl themselves into their own destiny. And a  time to prepare to pick up the pieces when it's all over." ~Gloria  Naylor

"I'm going to go lie down for a bit, darling," Mary  Watson said to her husband with a quick kiss on the cheek. A day of  travel coming back from their late honeymoon in Brighton had left her  rather tired. She was quite relieved to be home.

"Alright, dearest," John Watson said, kissing his wife on the cheek. As she made  her way up the stairs, Watson went to his office. On his desk still lay  the oxygen device that had once so fascinated his late friend, Sherlock  Holmes. It still puzzled him how such a contraption had ended up at his  doorstep. At first, he had thought that Holmes had delivered it. But  that was absurd. Holmes was dead. Watson had seen him go over the  balcony himself, had witnessed the long drop, and the ice cold water  that awaited him at the bottom. There was no way his friend could have  survived such a fall. It was entirely impossible. And though Holmes had  often pulled himself and countless others through impossible situations  before, this time the feat was too great even for the famous Sherlock  Holmes. Watson knew that. It had taken him some time to accept, but  he finally had resigned himself to the fact. He knew that if  Holmes had, by some miracle, survived, he surely would have returned to  explain his great escape in exaggerated detail to Watson, whether he had  wanted to hear it or not.

With a heavy sigh, he sank down into his desk chair. "After all that we've been  through, every time I thought for sure it was over, and this is how  it ends? You had to prove me wrong though, didn't you?   You weren't a selfish bastard after all. You took Moriarty  with you so the world would finally be free of him," he smirked, wiping  the blasted tears from his eyes. "Now you're just a bastard."

Watson went to pick up the oxygen device when something caught his eye. He took a closer look at the  manuscript he had been writing before he and Mary had left for their  honeymoon. "Curious," he muttered, taking the last page out of the typewriter to better  inspect it. There was a question mark placed at the end. Watson frowned. He was almost certain he had not put it there. Why would  he have phrased it as a question? The adventures of Holmes and Watson  were finished. Weren't they?

His gaze traveled down the page  to where another line was written that he knew beyond a doubt that he did not write.

Come  at your earliest convenience. Or, if it is inconvenient, come all the same.

Watson's  heart started to race. Even for Holmes this was impossible, surely.   Perhaps it was worth giving Mrs. Hudson a call. Then again, he thought  as he rose from his chair and headed out, perhaps he was descending into  a madness similar to that which he claimed Holmes suffered from. His  friend was dead, but if there was a possibility that he wasn't... Well,  it was certainly worth looking into.

His hand on the doorknob, he  heard the crinkle of paper beneath his shoe. Frowning slightly, Watson  reached down and picked up an envelope.

"My dearest Dr. Watson,

First,  I must ask that you burn this letter as soon as you are finished  reading it. Alright? Good. Now then, I know you are on your way to  Nanny's. Did you leave a note for your new wife who is resting up the  stairs? No, you did not. I must say, Watson, I am somewhat disappointed. With all that talk of your undying love for Mary, and you neglect to  tell her you are stepping out? What would she think if she awoke to an  empty house? No. That will not do at all. Go and write a note.

On  second thought, don't do that. Do not go to Mrs. Hudson's, Watson. She  knows nothing of this. No one does, and you must promise to tell no one  of this. I am trusting you with my life, Watson. Just as you must trust  me. All will be revealed in time, that is my promise to you, my friend. But for now, do not attempt to discover my whereabouts. For now, it must  be enough for you to know that I am not dead as everyone supposed, but  neither is it yet the proper time for me to be alive. Burn this  letter. Live your life of imprisonment which you call matrimony. And  know that one day, we will meet again.

Ever yours,

S. Holmes"

Watson's  hands trembled as he continued to stare at the letter long after he had  finished reading it. Holmes was alive!

"You bloody bastard," he hissed,  producing a lighter from his pocket and letting the orange flame burn  the letter. When it was gone, Watson leaned against the wall, suddenly  feeling quite dizzy. He was alive! Homes had survived. How was that even  possible? For months he had forced himself to come to grips with his  death, only to find that he was alive. Watson never knew he could feel  so many emotions at once. He ran a shaky hand through his hair and  rubbed the back of his neck. How could Holmes do this to him? How could he  lead him to believe that he was dead, only to write him now to tell  him that he was, in fact, alive but he was not to try and contact him in any way? It was completely psychotic.

It was completely Sherlock Holmes.

For  nearly a year, Watson tried to put Holmes out of his mind. But he had  to admit that he payed far too much attention to their postman, the  lamp lighter, the waiter, even the beggar he saw on the street. He  thought he saw Holmes in one of his infamous disguises everywhere. It  was slowly driving him mad that he could not go after his friend. What  if he was in trouble? What if he needed help? Both were equally likely. But he  forced himself to live his life as Holmes suggested, and trust his  friend that all would be set to rights eventually.

Indeed, Watson  did live his life. Two months after the strange letter from Holmes, Mary  revealed to her husband that she was pregnant. Come December, they  would be parents.