Tales Woven With Care
Title: Tales Woven With Care
Fandom/Warning/Rating: Sherlock Holmes (ACD canon), DEPRESSING FIC WARNING, rated G
Word Count: 200 words
Summary: Watson falls back upon his skill as a storyteller.
Author's Note: Written for watsons_woes JWP#11.
As a doctor I understood the inherent dangers of both pregnancy and childbirth, but I never expected to face such tragedy first hand; not in the manner in which I did. I was forced to say goodbye to my dear, sweet Mary shortly before midnight. Intellectually, I knew that in all likelihood I would be doing the same for our poor daughter before dawn but I refused to acknowledge it. Instead I held the tiny babe my arms and embraced my new role as a father by spinning a fanciful tale of the life we would be living together. I told her of the numerous dolls she would have, the ribbons I would buy for her hair and how I was completely certain that without a doubt she would grow up to be as beautiful as her mother. We lived a lifetime together, she and I, in those stories I that wove together in those few hours we spent together.
It was foolishness, of course, desperate blatherings of a grieving man and it did nothing to assuage the emptiness I felt when morning came and I found myself neither a father nor a husband but rather completely and utterly alone.
Fandom/Warning/Rating: Sherlock Holmes (ACD canon), DEPRESSING FIC WARNING, rated G
Word Count: 200 words
Summary: Watson falls back upon his skill as a storyteller.
Author's Note: Written for watsons_woes JWP#11.
As a doctor I understood the inherent dangers of both pregnancy and childbirth, but I never expected to face such tragedy first hand; not in the manner in which I did. I was forced to say goodbye to my dear, sweet Mary shortly before midnight. Intellectually, I knew that in all likelihood I would be doing the same for our poor daughter before dawn but I refused to acknowledge it. Instead I held the tiny babe my arms and embraced my new role as a father by spinning a fanciful tale of the life we would be living together. I told her of the numerous dolls she would have, the ribbons I would buy for her hair and how I was completely certain that without a doubt she would grow up to be as beautiful as her mother. We lived a lifetime together, she and I, in those stories I that wove together in those few hours we spent together.
It was foolishness, of course, desperate blatherings of a grieving man and it did nothing to assuage the emptiness I felt when morning came and I found myself neither a father nor a husband but rather completely and utterly alone.