The fist time Sherlock Holmes and John Watson die, a flame-haired queen hears of their demise from her closest advisor, who later mourns quietly in a torchlit chapel for the brother he couldn't save.

And the life of a brilliant purusivant and his physician-cum-assistant-cum-bodyguard…ends.

Until the stones shift and the Thames churns and the skies darken, and the winds-round-corners and horseshoes-on-cobblestones and snapping-flags sounds swell as London stirs and whispers No

And she finds them- because Sherlock won't give up on a case, even if he's less than corporal- and she gives them an offer. She whispers them stories of past and future and always and forever, of cobblestones and mortar and paving and steel. She tells them of nights lit by torches and gaslights and streetlamps and flames, and she offers them an eternity of joy and running and together and adventure and hers.

So they look at each other and think of interesting and running and together and here, and they whisper Yes.

London smiles, and weaves them into her story.

And they dance in and out of the velvet death-darkness to return to her again and again, and the soldierdoctor and detective find each other time after time, because they story won't write itself properly when it's missing a character. London welcomes them each time, bringing the soldierdoctor home and the detective back (from the knife-edge he can't help but walk when there isn't someone to keep him from falling) when the time is right for once upon a time to be right here and right now.

And even if they don't meet her this time around, (Sometimes they do and sometimes they don't and sometimes they might have an inkling in the backs of their minds, even if such an illogical deduction is never voiced aloud) they somehow still know that someone (not something, but someone, a very clear difference in these sorts of cases) is there and watching.

And they thank her with every chase and case and culprit, with every time they swagger off into the fog after all the pieces clicked, and with every time they remark about how they couldn't live anywhere but London.

And some time between the last breath and the first, while they wait for another chance, another turn, another chapter, both sides agree that it is a most satisfactory arrangement, for London has ensured that she will always hve protectors to keep the poison from bubbling up from its reightful place in the dark.

And the two who agreed to her offer?

They get to keep running.

I really do love Sentient!London- she's such fun to write. And just so you know, I have absolutely no qualms about writing in to "Dear Jim" and asking for help with all the people who read this and neglect to review, so I strongly suggest that you click that lovely little button on the way out. Bye!

-InkySpectacles