I'm Only Human
Title: I'm Only Human
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I disclaim. Don't own these guys, thankfully for them.
Author's note: I feel like I'm spamming your community, but this kind of popped into my head and I couldn't get it out until I wrote it. It's a character study of Sherlock Holmes; short, not sweet, but hopefully to the point. I won't say enjoy because I doubt this'll soothe your sweet tooth, but I hope you can understand what I'm getting at here, either way.
Summary: What man wants to see the world as he does and still feel?
I listened to this while writing. You should listen while reading, it might help a bit. :]
Humanity is an ugly thing. It is built from lies, from hate, from competition, from wars, from life, from death and very rarely from love. Separate, each piece of humanity is a vibrant, lovely looking color that can distract and charm any man with the power of sight. Only very few can see it as it really is: all the colors mixed together form an ugly, muddy color that depresses the soul and sends one spiraling from the very truth of the dirt from whence we came.
The disjointed screech of a lonely violin does not so much break the silence as it covers up the stifling nothingness of a quiet night, as it has been going for hours, and weaves gently through the open window that is letting cool air and colder rain through a darkened window. A man walking below the window stops for a moment, an ear ringing with the duality of beauty and ugliness that so often comes with hearing the wailing of the violin constantly playing at 221B, Baker Street. He stops to breathe it in for a moment while letting sunken eyes, tired with use and many toils, close with sadness and euphoria just for a brief second before he steps on and leaves the window, the violin and the man behind him.
There are hardly any lights on at 221B. It has been in such a state since the good Doctor Watson left for married life. The poor landlady, Mrs. Hudson, still resides with the living terror, or what is left of him, God bless his soul. She sits at the dimly lit kitchen table and silently listens to the music above her. It is nothing like he used to play, she knows this. He used to play such jaunty, such lively tunes that, despite his faults, Mrs. Hudson loved him for it. Those days are gone, Lord knows and she knows. They left with the doctor. They left when the last piece of Holmes's already deteriorated heart fell to the floor and shriveled amongst the papers and letters and news clippings that he always insists are in their proper place. Mrs. Hudson wonders if they ever really were.
Still, the violin plays.
His fingers are bloody and worn and his arm is tired. His eyes are strained from the dark and his wild hair blows gently round his face as the chilly wind wraps itself around him in ill-timed gusts, but he does not shiver. He blocks the sounds of the street, of the outside world, of humanity with his ear pressed to his violin and his eyes closed. He will not stop.
He is the one man who sees not in black and white but in a spectrum of gritty, dirty grays. He will read your life in a smile and will know your every lie in a shift. He will know you better than you know yourself, in time, and he will not hesitate to tell you as such. He will read a motive in an ill-timed step. He is the man who sees humanity, the man who understands it. He is the man who sees it for how it truly is instead of clouding his eyes with illusions of beauty and of contentment. He sees terrible things with such a cool detachment that he is often deemed as an unfeeling, unemotional bastard.
What man wants to see the world as he does and still feel?
What man wants to see the lies and the evils of the world and be able to hurt? With his gift of perception comes the price, the blank unfeelingness that keeps him able to focus on the details. He is not distracted by tears of sadness nor the shaking of rage nor the need for vengeance. He sees with rationality and logic only, not with the emotions that blind even the best man. If he were to analyze it, he would suppose that it is an advantage to see the image of a bleeding innocent and be able to scrutinize the details; not be troubled with the sadness of a passed life.
He has none of the vibrant colors of humanity, nor the muddy mix they make when they collide. He is the blank man; a canvas that none but one have dared to paint on.
A new gait reaches his ear even as he plays on; one so familiar it is as if he is listening to his own. One long step, one shorter step accompanied with the faint tap of a finely made cane. His eyes open slowly to the darkness as his arm slows, playing now only faintly and slowly. The gait pauses underneath the window and he counts the breaths from the street underneath. He does not move from his place in front of the already dead fireplace, but he is hyper-aware of the man standing below his window. He imagines the fair face tilted up, sharp eyes narrowed and searching for movement. He will give no satisfaction, he will not give into the irrational urge to just take a look, one look and I swear that is all I will need, just give me one more moment--
John Watson once accused him of being inhuman. He hardly thinks that is fair, as he has given Watson all the humanity he ever possessed. Watson; good, caring, gentle Watson was his tether to humanity, was his only reason to grasp at his emotions. He once gave the man everything he had. If ever he could truly love, he would love John Watson; of that, he is sure. He wonders if being able to truly love would be worth all the other dissatisfactory emotions that accompanies humanity.
He once again begins drawing his sore arm back and forth, maneuvering the bow grasped loosely in his hand as the one long step, one shorter step, tap moves away from the window. He drowns out the gait as best as he can, leaning towards the instrument so that his ear rings with the sound of his tune.
You're not human.
Humanity is an ugly, painful thing.
You're not human.
Maybe, he thinks as he swallows a vague pain in his chest stinging in his eyes, it is better that way.
He continues to play and life continues to go on.
It is better that way.