I'm not there
Title: I’m not there
Word count: 2750 (oneshot)
Pairing: Holmes/Watson, slash
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: don’t own anything
A/N: Something really sad I wanted to write all of a sudden, so bear with me if it has too much angst in there (though I tried my best not to put it there at all). Was supposed to be chaptered story, but knowing me, I won’t be able to stop it ever.
Warnings: slash, extreme sadness
Please, do leave a review, I need them in order to survive XD
I’m not there.
“I’m bored,” Holmes says, laying his violin on his lap. Strangely enough, playing the violin hasn’t been giving him any pleasure at all for the last week or so.
Holmes tilts his head to the side slightly and thinks that for the last few days, he’s altogether been feeling rather odd. There were headaches, some short memory losses, apathy, mood swings. And now he’s simply bored out of his mind.
“Well, my friend, you should be able to find a way to entertain yourself,” Watson says diplomatically from the chair on which Holmes is leaning.
“Should I? I thought you are here to make me feel better,” Holmes says, smiling slyly.
“You’ve got to understand that I won’t always be there for you, dear fellow” Watson replies sadly and the next moment Holmes’ head hurts so much he shuts his eyes. The pain lasts for a second but it’s enough to make him pant. He feels like he has heard something like that from Watson before but he can’t remember when exactly and it causes this funny feeling in his stomach.
He lets his head rest on Watson’s lap and immediately feels his friend’s fingers stroking his hair, gently and softly, almost making Holmes purr with content.
“I don’t even want to think about it,” he says quietly. “The thought of being somewhere alone without you is enough to make me sick”
Even to his own ears he sounds sappy, but he’s actually quite pleased with himself for speaking so sincerely and truthfully for the first time in god only knows how much time. Finally he feels like there are no secrets between him and Watson that hang like clouds above them, ready to pour out.
He feels drowsy suddenly and he slips his eyes close, shifting comfortably to settle his head on the doctor’s lap in a position that won’t hurt his neck. The thought of actually getting up from the floor and going to bed doesn’t even cross his mind as he feels Watson’s fingers gently massaging his scalp. As he drifts off to sleep he feels with something like sixth sense that Watson is smiling.
Almost asleep, he smiles, too.
Mrs. Hudson comes in noiselessly, a tea tray in her hands. She puts it on the table and straightens her back, looking at Holmes for the first time since she’d entered the room.
“How are you today, Mr. Holmes?”
Her voice sounds so gentle and filled with so much concern that Holmes grows suspicious of her at once. He quickly thinks over the last times he spoke with the landlady but he remembers nothing of the sort that could make Mrs. Hudson behave anything but normal. He eyes her closely, taking in her slightly tired appearance, the sad, almost pitying expression on her face, her eyes, filled with sorrow and something like regret. He wonders what in blasted hell has happened to their landlady.
“I’m perfectly fine, thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” He replies tentatively and her lips twitch.
“How is your head? Have you been experiencing headaches recently?” she insists in the same caring tone of hers that makes Holmes wary. Besides, the fact that she still hasn’t even acknowledged Watson’s presence in the room annoys him greatly.
“My head is fine, my lady, but why do you ask?” He asks her, frowning as he can’t really remember him complaining to her once.
Her eyes widen a bit and she steps closer “But surely you know, Doctor Jackson said I should ask you constantly to see if everything is alright” she says in a tone that suggests this is the most evident thing in the world.
Now Holmes is confused. He turns to Watson, who’s sitting in his chair and gives him a quizzical look to which Watson simply shrugs.
“And who is that Dr. Jackson?” Holmes asks her and he can’t help sounding a little condescending.
Mrs. Hudson freezes in her position, her hands in the air, unnatural, somewhat creepy smile twisting her lips. Her eyes seem to have become wet all of a sudden. She stares at him as if he’s grown two heads and that really makes him uncomfortable. Besides, the tingling feeling in his stomach suddenly appears and just keeps increasing. Holmes knows this feeling typically precedes the headache so he focuses on Watson who still hasn’t said a word.
“My dear fellow,” Holmes addresses him, “Is Dr. Jackson familiar to you?”
“Not at all” Watson says, shaking his head and for some reason he sounds very sad. Holmes’ head is spinning suddenly and he turns back to Mrs. Hudson, noticing the tears in her eyes.
“See? Watson here doesn’t know this doctor person as well” He says, desperate to understand what is going on, but Mrs. Hudson gives an almost violent shudder at his words.
“W-Watson?” She stammers, her voice shaking. She clears her throat and turns to Watson, not looking him in the face though, and says “I’m sorry, Dr. Watson, I- I didn’t see you there.”
“Mrs. Hudson, are you alright?” Holmes asks her gently, trying to ignore the pulsing pain in his head. “You look rather… tired.”
“I’m quite alright, Mr. Holmes, it’s you I’m worried about,” and before Holmes has a chance to ask why, she nearly storms out of the room. Holmes is sure he can hear her weeping once the door is closed behind her.
He turns to Watson again, his fingers rubbing his temples in circles. “What’s the matter with her?” He asks his friend.
“I have no idea, Holmes, but looking at her I can only think of someone having died”
And though Watson’s tone is rather indifferent, Holmes can detect some tremulous note in it. He thinks of interrogating further but the headache doesn’t let him focus and he decides to drop it for now.
Watson just keeps turning the pages of his newspaper.
“Are you wearing my shirt again, Holmes?!” Watson asks him, trying to sound furious but failing. Holmes smirks slightly, nuzzling into the crook of Watson’s neck as they lie in bed together.
“I borrowed it. Besides, it’s too small for you”
“That’s not the point!”
“Then your point is where, exactly? ‘Not wearing myself, not allowing my best friend to wear it, let it just rot in my wardrobe’? That’s not very practical, you know”
“The point is that you actually respect my personal space and ask me before taking my things from me!”
“If I ask you will never give them to me!”
“Well then, now since you know it, don’t bother asking.”
“That’s exactly what I do” Holmes smirks, breathing in the scent of Watson’s skin, the unique aroma that belongs only to Watson, and he feels happy, the happiest he’s felt in many many years.
“That’s not what I meant” Watson sighs and kisses the top of Holmes’ head and the detective feels the smile in the kiss. In a sudden burst of tenderness towards his friends he tightens his grip around the doctor’s body, drawing Watson even closer, so close it’s hard to understand where Holmes ends and Watson begins.
The moment feels somewhat strange, almost surreal, something ephemeral in the air, and through the happiness Holmes can suddenly feel deep sadness. It’s so powerful that his eyes water at once and his heart beats quicker, though he can’t quite understand the feeling himself.
“It’s alright, my dear” Watson whispers in his ear and embraces him tighter. “It’s alright”
And Holmes believes him.
“Please, be careful, my friend” Holmes pleads Watson as they prepare to jump into the room, where, Holmes suspects, people with guns might be.
“Yes, yes, of course I will be, I have a wife to think of, after all” Watson states and Holmes feels a sting in his heart when Watson doesn’t mention him, as if Watson doesn’t need to worry about him.
Watson must be feeling somewhat uncomfortable, too, because he says quickly, avoiding his eyes: “Alright, Holmes, come on, on the count of three: one, two -”
Then everything happens very fast, too fast for Holmes to react properly. Before Watson says ‘three’ the doors open and there is a thunder of several gunshots, all in what seems like two seconds, and Holmes just has time to jump away and he assumes Watson has done the same.
And then silence follows in which he lifts up his gaze and he sees Watson and the sight of his friend makes his heart stop, makes him feel as if he has missed the step on the stairs and he just falls.
His mouth agape, he sees Watson standing absolutely straight, too straight and there are several red spots growing in various parts of his body. Holmes watches as if in the slow motion as the red spots grow bigger and bigger and soon there is no clean place on Watson’s chest and the doctor just looks down on himself, confusion all over his face, as if he doesn’t get what has just happened. And then -
And then
Then, painfully slow, Watson falls down -
“No!”
“Holmes -”
“No! Nonononono…”
“Holmes, listen to me, it’s just a dream, just a dream” A voice in his ear, soft and comforting, and Holmes strains to hear it because his head is seemingly going to explode right now, his whole body is in pain, turning him insights out. Something wet runs down his cheeks to his neck and with delay he realizes he’s crying. Watson embraces him and rocks them both, whispering in that quiet comforting voice: “Shh, shh, I’m here, I have you, shh, it’s alright, I’m here, and it’s alright”
Except Holmes knows it isn’t, because it was not just a dream, he remembers it, he still feels it - the shock, the pain, the indifference -
But Watson keeps rocking them soothingly and he soon feels his eyelids grow heavy and he quickly drifts to sleep, this time without any dreams at all.
He wonders suddenly where Gladstone is. Now that he thinks of it, he can’t remember actually seeing the dog for the last week, or two maybe. The sudden absence of the pet makes him grow nervous for some reason and he immediately decides to find it out. He wanders around the house, calling for the dog, but it’s nowhere in sight, and when he gets in the rest room again Watson is sitting in his favorite chair with a newspaper. Holmes doesn’t recall seeing Watson at all this morning but he doesn’t question it and instead he wonders:
“Watson, do you by any chance know where your dog is? Not that I miss it, of course!”
Watson is silent and just stares at him from his chair across the room, watching Holmes go round the room, bending down, trying to find the dog under the tables and chairs. The feeling of some wrongness hangs in the air and suddenly, Holmes is afraid of looking at his friend. The task to find Gladstone immediately becomes his mission in life.
There are footsteps from outside the room and then Mrs. Hudson enters, worried expression on her face. Before he has time to ask her about the dog, she cuts him off:
“Mr. Holmes, Marry Wa-“ she coughs, “Mary Morstan is here”
His insights jump at the name and his head bursts with pain. The tingling appears in his stomach and he feels he knows that name somehow, he should remember it, he should know this person. He frowns, both from pain and confusion, the name Mary Morstan flashing in his head as he tries to put it with a person behind.
He doesn’t have time, though, as the next moment the blonde lady walks into the room and his head literally explodes at the sight of her. Marymorstanmarymorstanmary
“Holmes” she says, almost spits his name, and there’s so much pain and hurt in her voice that Holmes shudders involuntary. “I’ve come to get the rest of his possessions”
He’s tried to but he can’t, he’s not capable of deducing who she is so he just bluntly says: “I’m sorry, madam, but who are you and what are you talking about?”
Her face literally turns to stone. He frowns, his head spinning all over again, and the fact that he simply can’t understand what the hell is wrong gets on his nerves.
He swallows nervously before saying, gesturing back to Watson: “By the way, this is my friend and companion, Doctor John Watson”
He regrets his words immediately as her eyes go wet in a matter of seconds, though they are wide with shock and pain and anger, and she sobs, tears running down her face “Oh God, why, why are you doing this to me?!”
He just stands there, feeling helpless and unable to think of what to do, but then she continues.
“Do you think it’s funny?! Didn’t you hurt me enough already?! How can you say such things?! How can you...” She sobs in her hands, her words muffled and pained as if it hurts her to say them.
“Miss Morstan, I’m so sorry, but what are you talking about?” He asks her, feeling both confused and annoyed and even feeling true sympathy for this poor woman.
“Oh, you - I” She takes a deep breath, “I’m talking about John Watson, my dead husband, who died by your fault!”
And with that she storms out of the room and before the door closes Holmes hears Mrs. Hudson’s words ‘you shouldn’t have said such things…’
He turns back to his friend and Watson is no longer sitting in the chair, he stands at the window, his back to Holmes, shoulders tense. Holmes asks him tentatively: “What’s wrong, Watson, please, do tell me! What was she talking about?”
Watson turns to him finally, his face wearing an expression of sorrow and pain and Holmes knows he doesn’t want to know.
“I’m dead, my dear fellow, remember?” his friend says to him and Holmes freezes, his heart stopping.
“What?”
“I died three weeks ago, in a fight against Mr. Smithson. I was shot in chest several times. Vast blood loss.”
Holmes shakes his head disbelievingly. “What the hell are you talking about, Watson? You can’t have died, you’ve been there all that time with me, you’ve been there!”
“I have never been there and I’m not here now” Watson states, simple as day.
Holmes laughs and it comes out shaky and pathetic. He refuses to hear that. He refuses to believe that. Watson keeps talking.
“Mary is my wife, remember? She’s been coming to take away all of my possessions. She took Gladstone.”
The words come out of Watson’s mouth, simply and cruelly, as the comprehension slowly downs on him, merciless and hard, taking away all the air from his lungs. He realizes he’s panting.
“Sometimes you realize all of this in these rare moments when you’re back to yourself, and then Dr. Jackson comes and gives you medicine. Mrs. Hudson has been looking after you all this time”
Holmes’ gaze falls on Watson’s chair. It’s neat and cleared-up, without a single wrinkle on it, and there’s an inch layer of dust on the armrests like no one has sat there for a long time. It’s impossible, Holmes thinks, it’s impossible, because Watson has just sat there, reading the newspaper like he always does.
He looks around but there’s no newspaper in sight. He gulps.
“You’ve been wearing my shirt ever since the day of my death. It’s the only piece of my cloth Mary hasn’t taken away from you.”
“It can’t be” Holmes whispers desperately, his hands go around himself. “It can’t be, you were there, you told me you were there, with me, you held me and you kissed me and you told me you loved me”
“I do love you, Holmes” Watson says quietly. “But I was never there”
And he cries, the realization too hard for him to bear, tearing him apart, breaking him to shreds, and Watson’s suddenly all over him, hugging him, protecting him from all evil, except he knows now there’s no Watson there.
“It’s alright,” Watson whispers in his ear. “You’re most likely to forget this conversation soon; we’ve already had one of those”
Deep insight, he feels relief. He’s all too glad to fall into a happy oblivion, into his own small reality. After all, he doesn’t have anything in reality left, anyway.
When Mrs. Hudson walks into the room again, Holmes is deep asleep in a Watson’s favorite chair, a happy smile on his face.
Please, review :)
Word count: 2750 (oneshot)
Pairing: Holmes/Watson, slash
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: don’t own anything
A/N: Something really sad I wanted to write all of a sudden, so bear with me if it has too much angst in there (though I tried my best not to put it there at all). Was supposed to be chaptered story, but knowing me, I won’t be able to stop it ever.
Warnings: slash, extreme sadness
Please, do leave a review, I need them in order to survive XD
I’m not there.
“I’m bored,” Holmes says, laying his violin on his lap. Strangely enough, playing the violin hasn’t been giving him any pleasure at all for the last week or so.
Holmes tilts his head to the side slightly and thinks that for the last few days, he’s altogether been feeling rather odd. There were headaches, some short memory losses, apathy, mood swings. And now he’s simply bored out of his mind.
“Well, my friend, you should be able to find a way to entertain yourself,” Watson says diplomatically from the chair on which Holmes is leaning.
“Should I? I thought you are here to make me feel better,” Holmes says, smiling slyly.
“You’ve got to understand that I won’t always be there for you, dear fellow” Watson replies sadly and the next moment Holmes’ head hurts so much he shuts his eyes. The pain lasts for a second but it’s enough to make him pant. He feels like he has heard something like that from Watson before but he can’t remember when exactly and it causes this funny feeling in his stomach.
He lets his head rest on Watson’s lap and immediately feels his friend’s fingers stroking his hair, gently and softly, almost making Holmes purr with content.
“I don’t even want to think about it,” he says quietly. “The thought of being somewhere alone without you is enough to make me sick”
Even to his own ears he sounds sappy, but he’s actually quite pleased with himself for speaking so sincerely and truthfully for the first time in god only knows how much time. Finally he feels like there are no secrets between him and Watson that hang like clouds above them, ready to pour out.
He feels drowsy suddenly and he slips his eyes close, shifting comfortably to settle his head on the doctor’s lap in a position that won’t hurt his neck. The thought of actually getting up from the floor and going to bed doesn’t even cross his mind as he feels Watson’s fingers gently massaging his scalp. As he drifts off to sleep he feels with something like sixth sense that Watson is smiling.
Almost asleep, he smiles, too.
Mrs. Hudson comes in noiselessly, a tea tray in her hands. She puts it on the table and straightens her back, looking at Holmes for the first time since she’d entered the room.
“How are you today, Mr. Holmes?”
Her voice sounds so gentle and filled with so much concern that Holmes grows suspicious of her at once. He quickly thinks over the last times he spoke with the landlady but he remembers nothing of the sort that could make Mrs. Hudson behave anything but normal. He eyes her closely, taking in her slightly tired appearance, the sad, almost pitying expression on her face, her eyes, filled with sorrow and something like regret. He wonders what in blasted hell has happened to their landlady.
“I’m perfectly fine, thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” He replies tentatively and her lips twitch.
“How is your head? Have you been experiencing headaches recently?” she insists in the same caring tone of hers that makes Holmes wary. Besides, the fact that she still hasn’t even acknowledged Watson’s presence in the room annoys him greatly.
“My head is fine, my lady, but why do you ask?” He asks her, frowning as he can’t really remember him complaining to her once.
Her eyes widen a bit and she steps closer “But surely you know, Doctor Jackson said I should ask you constantly to see if everything is alright” she says in a tone that suggests this is the most evident thing in the world.
Now Holmes is confused. He turns to Watson, who’s sitting in his chair and gives him a quizzical look to which Watson simply shrugs.
“And who is that Dr. Jackson?” Holmes asks her and he can’t help sounding a little condescending.
Mrs. Hudson freezes in her position, her hands in the air, unnatural, somewhat creepy smile twisting her lips. Her eyes seem to have become wet all of a sudden. She stares at him as if he’s grown two heads and that really makes him uncomfortable. Besides, the tingling feeling in his stomach suddenly appears and just keeps increasing. Holmes knows this feeling typically precedes the headache so he focuses on Watson who still hasn’t said a word.
“My dear fellow,” Holmes addresses him, “Is Dr. Jackson familiar to you?”
“Not at all” Watson says, shaking his head and for some reason he sounds very sad. Holmes’ head is spinning suddenly and he turns back to Mrs. Hudson, noticing the tears in her eyes.
“See? Watson here doesn’t know this doctor person as well” He says, desperate to understand what is going on, but Mrs. Hudson gives an almost violent shudder at his words.
“W-Watson?” She stammers, her voice shaking. She clears her throat and turns to Watson, not looking him in the face though, and says “I’m sorry, Dr. Watson, I- I didn’t see you there.”
“Mrs. Hudson, are you alright?” Holmes asks her gently, trying to ignore the pulsing pain in his head. “You look rather… tired.”
“I’m quite alright, Mr. Holmes, it’s you I’m worried about,” and before Holmes has a chance to ask why, she nearly storms out of the room. Holmes is sure he can hear her weeping once the door is closed behind her.
He turns to Watson again, his fingers rubbing his temples in circles. “What’s the matter with her?” He asks his friend.
“I have no idea, Holmes, but looking at her I can only think of someone having died”
And though Watson’s tone is rather indifferent, Holmes can detect some tremulous note in it. He thinks of interrogating further but the headache doesn’t let him focus and he decides to drop it for now.
Watson just keeps turning the pages of his newspaper.
“Are you wearing my shirt again, Holmes?!” Watson asks him, trying to sound furious but failing. Holmes smirks slightly, nuzzling into the crook of Watson’s neck as they lie in bed together.
“I borrowed it. Besides, it’s too small for you”
“That’s not the point!”
“Then your point is where, exactly? ‘Not wearing myself, not allowing my best friend to wear it, let it just rot in my wardrobe’? That’s not very practical, you know”
“The point is that you actually respect my personal space and ask me before taking my things from me!”
“If I ask you will never give them to me!”
“Well then, now since you know it, don’t bother asking.”
“That’s exactly what I do” Holmes smirks, breathing in the scent of Watson’s skin, the unique aroma that belongs only to Watson, and he feels happy, the happiest he’s felt in many many years.
“That’s not what I meant” Watson sighs and kisses the top of Holmes’ head and the detective feels the smile in the kiss. In a sudden burst of tenderness towards his friends he tightens his grip around the doctor’s body, drawing Watson even closer, so close it’s hard to understand where Holmes ends and Watson begins.
The moment feels somewhat strange, almost surreal, something ephemeral in the air, and through the happiness Holmes can suddenly feel deep sadness. It’s so powerful that his eyes water at once and his heart beats quicker, though he can’t quite understand the feeling himself.
“It’s alright, my dear” Watson whispers in his ear and embraces him tighter. “It’s alright”
And Holmes believes him.
“Please, be careful, my friend” Holmes pleads Watson as they prepare to jump into the room, where, Holmes suspects, people with guns might be.
“Yes, yes, of course I will be, I have a wife to think of, after all” Watson states and Holmes feels a sting in his heart when Watson doesn’t mention him, as if Watson doesn’t need to worry about him.
Watson must be feeling somewhat uncomfortable, too, because he says quickly, avoiding his eyes: “Alright, Holmes, come on, on the count of three: one, two -”
Then everything happens very fast, too fast for Holmes to react properly. Before Watson says ‘three’ the doors open and there is a thunder of several gunshots, all in what seems like two seconds, and Holmes just has time to jump away and he assumes Watson has done the same.
And then silence follows in which he lifts up his gaze and he sees Watson and the sight of his friend makes his heart stop, makes him feel as if he has missed the step on the stairs and he just falls.
His mouth agape, he sees Watson standing absolutely straight, too straight and there are several red spots growing in various parts of his body. Holmes watches as if in the slow motion as the red spots grow bigger and bigger and soon there is no clean place on Watson’s chest and the doctor just looks down on himself, confusion all over his face, as if he doesn’t get what has just happened. And then -
And then
Then, painfully slow, Watson falls down -
“No!”
“Holmes -”
“No! Nonononono…”
“Holmes, listen to me, it’s just a dream, just a dream” A voice in his ear, soft and comforting, and Holmes strains to hear it because his head is seemingly going to explode right now, his whole body is in pain, turning him insights out. Something wet runs down his cheeks to his neck and with delay he realizes he’s crying. Watson embraces him and rocks them both, whispering in that quiet comforting voice: “Shh, shh, I’m here, I have you, shh, it’s alright, I’m here, and it’s alright”
Except Holmes knows it isn’t, because it was not just a dream, he remembers it, he still feels it - the shock, the pain, the indifference -
But Watson keeps rocking them soothingly and he soon feels his eyelids grow heavy and he quickly drifts to sleep, this time without any dreams at all.
He wonders suddenly where Gladstone is. Now that he thinks of it, he can’t remember actually seeing the dog for the last week, or two maybe. The sudden absence of the pet makes him grow nervous for some reason and he immediately decides to find it out. He wanders around the house, calling for the dog, but it’s nowhere in sight, and when he gets in the rest room again Watson is sitting in his favorite chair with a newspaper. Holmes doesn’t recall seeing Watson at all this morning but he doesn’t question it and instead he wonders:
“Watson, do you by any chance know where your dog is? Not that I miss it, of course!”
Watson is silent and just stares at him from his chair across the room, watching Holmes go round the room, bending down, trying to find the dog under the tables and chairs. The feeling of some wrongness hangs in the air and suddenly, Holmes is afraid of looking at his friend. The task to find Gladstone immediately becomes his mission in life.
There are footsteps from outside the room and then Mrs. Hudson enters, worried expression on her face. Before he has time to ask her about the dog, she cuts him off:
“Mr. Holmes, Marry Wa-“ she coughs, “Mary Morstan is here”
His insights jump at the name and his head bursts with pain. The tingling appears in his stomach and he feels he knows that name somehow, he should remember it, he should know this person. He frowns, both from pain and confusion, the name Mary Morstan flashing in his head as he tries to put it with a person behind.
He doesn’t have time, though, as the next moment the blonde lady walks into the room and his head literally explodes at the sight of her. Marymorstanmarymorstanmary
“Holmes” she says, almost spits his name, and there’s so much pain and hurt in her voice that Holmes shudders involuntary. “I’ve come to get the rest of his possessions”
He’s tried to but he can’t, he’s not capable of deducing who she is so he just bluntly says: “I’m sorry, madam, but who are you and what are you talking about?”
Her face literally turns to stone. He frowns, his head spinning all over again, and the fact that he simply can’t understand what the hell is wrong gets on his nerves.
He swallows nervously before saying, gesturing back to Watson: “By the way, this is my friend and companion, Doctor John Watson”
He regrets his words immediately as her eyes go wet in a matter of seconds, though they are wide with shock and pain and anger, and she sobs, tears running down her face “Oh God, why, why are you doing this to me?!”
He just stands there, feeling helpless and unable to think of what to do, but then she continues.
“Do you think it’s funny?! Didn’t you hurt me enough already?! How can you say such things?! How can you...” She sobs in her hands, her words muffled and pained as if it hurts her to say them.
“Miss Morstan, I’m so sorry, but what are you talking about?” He asks her, feeling both confused and annoyed and even feeling true sympathy for this poor woman.
“Oh, you - I” She takes a deep breath, “I’m talking about John Watson, my dead husband, who died by your fault!”
And with that she storms out of the room and before the door closes Holmes hears Mrs. Hudson’s words ‘you shouldn’t have said such things…’
He turns back to his friend and Watson is no longer sitting in the chair, he stands at the window, his back to Holmes, shoulders tense. Holmes asks him tentatively: “What’s wrong, Watson, please, do tell me! What was she talking about?”
Watson turns to him finally, his face wearing an expression of sorrow and pain and Holmes knows he doesn’t want to know.
“I’m dead, my dear fellow, remember?” his friend says to him and Holmes freezes, his heart stopping.
“What?”
“I died three weeks ago, in a fight against Mr. Smithson. I was shot in chest several times. Vast blood loss.”
Holmes shakes his head disbelievingly. “What the hell are you talking about, Watson? You can’t have died, you’ve been there all that time with me, you’ve been there!”
“I have never been there and I’m not here now” Watson states, simple as day.
Holmes laughs and it comes out shaky and pathetic. He refuses to hear that. He refuses to believe that. Watson keeps talking.
“Mary is my wife, remember? She’s been coming to take away all of my possessions. She took Gladstone.”
The words come out of Watson’s mouth, simply and cruelly, as the comprehension slowly downs on him, merciless and hard, taking away all the air from his lungs. He realizes he’s panting.
“Sometimes you realize all of this in these rare moments when you’re back to yourself, and then Dr. Jackson comes and gives you medicine. Mrs. Hudson has been looking after you all this time”
Holmes’ gaze falls on Watson’s chair. It’s neat and cleared-up, without a single wrinkle on it, and there’s an inch layer of dust on the armrests like no one has sat there for a long time. It’s impossible, Holmes thinks, it’s impossible, because Watson has just sat there, reading the newspaper like he always does.
He looks around but there’s no newspaper in sight. He gulps.
“You’ve been wearing my shirt ever since the day of my death. It’s the only piece of my cloth Mary hasn’t taken away from you.”
“It can’t be” Holmes whispers desperately, his hands go around himself. “It can’t be, you were there, you told me you were there, with me, you held me and you kissed me and you told me you loved me”
“I do love you, Holmes” Watson says quietly. “But I was never there”
And he cries, the realization too hard for him to bear, tearing him apart, breaking him to shreds, and Watson’s suddenly all over him, hugging him, protecting him from all evil, except he knows now there’s no Watson there.
“It’s alright,” Watson whispers in his ear. “You’re most likely to forget this conversation soon; we’ve already had one of those”
Deep insight, he feels relief. He’s all too glad to fall into a happy oblivion, into his own small reality. After all, he doesn’t have anything in reality left, anyway.
When Mrs. Hudson walks into the room again, Holmes is deep asleep in a Watson’s favorite chair, a happy smile on his face.
Please, review :)