Honest Love
Title: Honest Love
Author(s): holmes221b
Rating: PG
Character(s): S. Holmes, J. Watson, E. Holmes (OC), M. Morstan
Summary: An attempt at cheering up Watson one chilly autumn evening backfires...Or Does it?
Warnings: AU (set in my personal 'verse), References to Character Death, Mild Spoilers for "Bleakest Hope" (sequel to "The Haunting of Pall Mall", which in turn is the sequel to "The Llanfair Adventure")
Word Count: 1377 words
Author's Notes: My first attempt at writing character death, using WWP #15 (Mistake), WWP #16 (Chilly Autumn Evening), and WWP #17 (Ghost).
Holmes
It had been a difficult autumn day for Watson, I knew it even before he had entered our sitting room that evening.
Elizabeth, hard at work on some project at her easel(1), didn't even look up as he entered the room, nor did she look up as I got up to help him over to his armchair by the fire.
His hands were ice cold, I noted with no slight concern.
"Watson, I must question your medical abilities if you continue to insist on walking home from your practice in this chill," I gently rebuked my friend.
Haunted hazel eyes met my own grey eyes at my words.
"I couldn't save her, no one could, Holmes," he whispered suddenly, frightening me for an instant--he didn't have a fever, and yet he spoke in the manner of one caught in the throws of a terrible fever.
And then I remembered what today was, and it all made sense--today was his late wife's birthday.
"I'm sure you did the best you could," I said soothingly.
"I could have done more, I should have been able to see the warning signs before it was too late," he insisted.
"You're not God, Watson, you're a doctor."
"And a pathetic one at that."
"No, you're not pathetic, Watson. You are the best doctor I have ever known," I admitted, sensing that his grief was clouding his ability to observe the obvious. "Any patient that dies under your care dies knowing that every possible option was tried."
I wanted to cut my tongue out of my mouth for saying that when Watson groaned at my words, fleeing the sitting room for his autumn-chilled bedroom.
I tried to apologize for my poor chosen (yet well-meant) words, but Watson had locked his bedroom door, and any attempt at gaining access resulted in an angry yell of "Leave me be, Holmes!", so I returned unforgiven to the sitting room.
"Give 'im some time, Sherlock," Elizabeth remarked as I dropped heavily into my armchair to sulk. She'd finished with her painting while I was upstairs trying to ask Watson for his forgiveness. "'E's feelin' guilty fer fergettin' 'bout today."
"What do you mean?" I asked her, wondering how she knew more about my friend's present state of mind than I did.
"'E didn't buy a rose ta place on Mary's grave today, Campbell told me."
"But surely it can't possibly be something so small as that that's bothering the doctor so badly," I insisted.
"It's not just tha', Sherlock," Elizabeth agreed. "'E's also startin' ta 'ave a 'ard time o' rememberin' wot she look'd loik before she got ill."
"Impossible."
"'E lost th' only photograph o' 'er 'e ever 'ad when tha' arsonist(2) gutt'd 'is practice," Elizabeth sternly reminded me, in a manner quite similar to our landlady, Mrs. Hudson.
"It was only a photograph, not something really important like his journals."
Elizabeth muttered something that sounded suspiciously a whole lot like "Irene Adler's ex-paramour would beg ta differ" at that, but I wasn't completely sure that I'd heard that, so I pretended not to have heard anything at all. Especially when she said, "Well, yew may not 'ave a need fer photographs o' yer nearest an' dearest, but th' good doctor does, an' Oi've got just th' thing ta 'elp 'im out."
When she didn't elaborate further on her own, I encouraged her to do so by asking what she had in mind to help Watson out.
"Oi've paint'd a portrait o' 'im an' Mary," she explained.
"But you've never met Mrs. Watson," I objected.
"Love is stronger than Death, Sherlock," Elizabeth replied with a smug grin as she stepped aside so that I could see the painting clearly.
To my utter amazement, she had indeed painted a portrait of Watson and his late wife, both standing in the exact same poses as they had been standing in for the photographer who had taken the photograph that had been destroyed by fire.
"How did you--?" I began, but I was too awestruck for words.
"Oi've seen tha' photograph enough times ta remember 'ow it look'd," she explained. "Do yew think th' doctor will loik it?"
"Like it? I'm certain that he will love it, Elizabeth!" I exclaimed.
"Oi'm gonna go an' give it ta 'im now, if tha' is alright wif yew," she declared.
~*~
Watson
After Holmes finally left me alone to deal with my breaking heart, I began to realize that I had behaved rudely to my friend, who had only been trying to help me.
But before I could get up to apologize to him, and to accept his apologies, there was a knock on my door.
"Who is it?" I called.
"It's me, Elizabeth, Doctor," came the reply. "May Oi come in? Oi've got something fer yew."
I got up to unlock the door, and opened it for her.
"Certainly, Elizabeth, you may come in," I said, as she entered my room, carrying the canvas she'd been painting when I had come home (she was holding it with care because of the still-wet paint).
I offered her a seat on the only chair in the room, which she accepted. I sat down on my bed, facing her.
"You mentioned that you had something for me?" I asked.
Elizabeth nodded.
"Oi heard you last night, talkin' in yer sleep," she began.
I frowned at this, for Elizabeth's room was on the other side of the sitting room from the stairs that led up to my room.
"Sherlock was out chasin' a lead on 'is latest case last night, an' 'e want'd me ta keep an eye on yew while 'e was gone," she quickly explained. "'E mentioned tha' yew still sometimes 'ad nightmares 'bout yer time in Afghanistan, an' 'e didn't want yew ta 'urt yerself trying ta get ta th' sittin' room if yew end'd up being unable ta get some sleep in yer own bed. 'E claimed tha' if tha' 'appened, Mrs. 'Udson would blame 'im an' raise th' rent as punishment, but Oi could tell 'e was 'onestly concerned 'bout yer well-being."
I smiled at Elizabeth's explanation, for I knew Holmes well enough to know that he would do such a thing and claim to be doing it to avoid incurring the landlady's wrath.
"What did you hear me say?" I asked.
"Oi 'eard yew cryin' out fer Mary, an' yew seemed ta be unable ta remember wot she look'd loik," she admitted. "Oi 'ad an idea as ta 'ow ta fix tha', so Oi painted this fer yew."
She held out the painting to me, and I nearly fainted in shock at how well Elizabeth had captured Mary's soul, for it was like seeing a ghost, to look at what Elizabeth had made for me.
"Campbell told me tha' yew didn't buy a rose ta place on 'er grave either, so Oi 'ad 'im do it fer yew," Elizabeth added.
"How much do I owe you?" I asked. Though I was referring to the rose, she thought I was talking about the painting she had given me.
"Fer th' painting?" Elizabeth asked, clearly hurt by my question.
"No, no, Elizabeth," I quickly said. "I mean for the rose."
Elizabeth smiled at this.
"Yew owe Sherlock an apology, 'e was only tryin' ta make see th' truth o' things. 'E doesn't much loik it when yew sulk," she replied.
"He is delusional, after all," I declared with a slight smile.
Elizabeth snickered.
"Because 'e seems ta think 'e is th' only person in Baker Street who is allow'd ta sulk?" she guessed.
I nodded, and we both were hard-pressed to stifle our laughter.
"Watson! Elizabeth! If you two don't come down right now for dinner, I'll tell Mrs. Hudson your whereabouts!" shouted Holmes from the bottom of the stairs that led to my room.
At that, we could no longer hold back the flood of laughter and we laughed merrily as Holmes grumbled something about how childish we were behaving, which only served to make us laugh even harder.
That night, I dreamt of Mary again, but this time, I saw her as she was when we first met, young and beautiful, and most importantly of all, she was healthy.
(1) Elizabeth is a talented painter, and she supplements what Holmes earns from his consulting work and Watson from his practice by selling her paintings and by doing commissions.
(2) In "Bleakest Hope", an arsonist's fire guts Watson's practice, leaving the building structurally intact but destroying everything inside, including the only photograph of his wife he owns.
Author(s): holmes221b
Rating: PG
Character(s): S. Holmes, J. Watson, E. Holmes (OC), M. Morstan
Summary: An attempt at cheering up Watson one chilly autumn evening backfires...Or Does it?
Warnings: AU (set in my personal 'verse), References to Character Death, Mild Spoilers for "Bleakest Hope" (sequel to "The Haunting of Pall Mall", which in turn is the sequel to "The Llanfair Adventure")
Word Count: 1377 words
Author's Notes: My first attempt at writing character death, using WWP #15 (Mistake), WWP #16 (Chilly Autumn Evening), and WWP #17 (Ghost).
Holmes
It had been a difficult autumn day for Watson, I knew it even before he had entered our sitting room that evening.
Elizabeth, hard at work on some project at her easel(1), didn't even look up as he entered the room, nor did she look up as I got up to help him over to his armchair by the fire.
His hands were ice cold, I noted with no slight concern.
"Watson, I must question your medical abilities if you continue to insist on walking home from your practice in this chill," I gently rebuked my friend.
Haunted hazel eyes met my own grey eyes at my words.
"I couldn't save her, no one could, Holmes," he whispered suddenly, frightening me for an instant--he didn't have a fever, and yet he spoke in the manner of one caught in the throws of a terrible fever.
And then I remembered what today was, and it all made sense--today was his late wife's birthday.
"I'm sure you did the best you could," I said soothingly.
"I could have done more, I should have been able to see the warning signs before it was too late," he insisted.
"You're not God, Watson, you're a doctor."
"And a pathetic one at that."
"No, you're not pathetic, Watson. You are the best doctor I have ever known," I admitted, sensing that his grief was clouding his ability to observe the obvious. "Any patient that dies under your care dies knowing that every possible option was tried."
I wanted to cut my tongue out of my mouth for saying that when Watson groaned at my words, fleeing the sitting room for his autumn-chilled bedroom.
I tried to apologize for my poor chosen (yet well-meant) words, but Watson had locked his bedroom door, and any attempt at gaining access resulted in an angry yell of "Leave me be, Holmes!", so I returned unforgiven to the sitting room.
"Give 'im some time, Sherlock," Elizabeth remarked as I dropped heavily into my armchair to sulk. She'd finished with her painting while I was upstairs trying to ask Watson for his forgiveness. "'E's feelin' guilty fer fergettin' 'bout today."
"What do you mean?" I asked her, wondering how she knew more about my friend's present state of mind than I did.
"'E didn't buy a rose ta place on Mary's grave today, Campbell told me."
"But surely it can't possibly be something so small as that that's bothering the doctor so badly," I insisted.
"It's not just tha', Sherlock," Elizabeth agreed. "'E's also startin' ta 'ave a 'ard time o' rememberin' wot she look'd loik before she got ill."
"Impossible."
"'E lost th' only photograph o' 'er 'e ever 'ad when tha' arsonist(2) gutt'd 'is practice," Elizabeth sternly reminded me, in a manner quite similar to our landlady, Mrs. Hudson.
"It was only a photograph, not something really important like his journals."
Elizabeth muttered something that sounded suspiciously a whole lot like "Irene Adler's ex-paramour would beg ta differ" at that, but I wasn't completely sure that I'd heard that, so I pretended not to have heard anything at all. Especially when she said, "Well, yew may not 'ave a need fer photographs o' yer nearest an' dearest, but th' good doctor does, an' Oi've got just th' thing ta 'elp 'im out."
When she didn't elaborate further on her own, I encouraged her to do so by asking what she had in mind to help Watson out.
"Oi've paint'd a portrait o' 'im an' Mary," she explained.
"But you've never met Mrs. Watson," I objected.
"Love is stronger than Death, Sherlock," Elizabeth replied with a smug grin as she stepped aside so that I could see the painting clearly.
To my utter amazement, she had indeed painted a portrait of Watson and his late wife, both standing in the exact same poses as they had been standing in for the photographer who had taken the photograph that had been destroyed by fire.
"How did you--?" I began, but I was too awestruck for words.
"Oi've seen tha' photograph enough times ta remember 'ow it look'd," she explained. "Do yew think th' doctor will loik it?"
"Like it? I'm certain that he will love it, Elizabeth!" I exclaimed.
"Oi'm gonna go an' give it ta 'im now, if tha' is alright wif yew," she declared.
~*~
Watson
After Holmes finally left me alone to deal with my breaking heart, I began to realize that I had behaved rudely to my friend, who had only been trying to help me.
But before I could get up to apologize to him, and to accept his apologies, there was a knock on my door.
"Who is it?" I called.
"It's me, Elizabeth, Doctor," came the reply. "May Oi come in? Oi've got something fer yew."
I got up to unlock the door, and opened it for her.
"Certainly, Elizabeth, you may come in," I said, as she entered my room, carrying the canvas she'd been painting when I had come home (she was holding it with care because of the still-wet paint).
I offered her a seat on the only chair in the room, which she accepted. I sat down on my bed, facing her.
"You mentioned that you had something for me?" I asked.
Elizabeth nodded.
"Oi heard you last night, talkin' in yer sleep," she began.
I frowned at this, for Elizabeth's room was on the other side of the sitting room from the stairs that led up to my room.
"Sherlock was out chasin' a lead on 'is latest case last night, an' 'e want'd me ta keep an eye on yew while 'e was gone," she quickly explained. "'E mentioned tha' yew still sometimes 'ad nightmares 'bout yer time in Afghanistan, an' 'e didn't want yew ta 'urt yerself trying ta get ta th' sittin' room if yew end'd up being unable ta get some sleep in yer own bed. 'E claimed tha' if tha' 'appened, Mrs. 'Udson would blame 'im an' raise th' rent as punishment, but Oi could tell 'e was 'onestly concerned 'bout yer well-being."
I smiled at Elizabeth's explanation, for I knew Holmes well enough to know that he would do such a thing and claim to be doing it to avoid incurring the landlady's wrath.
"What did you hear me say?" I asked.
"Oi 'eard yew cryin' out fer Mary, an' yew seemed ta be unable ta remember wot she look'd loik," she admitted. "Oi 'ad an idea as ta 'ow ta fix tha', so Oi painted this fer yew."
She held out the painting to me, and I nearly fainted in shock at how well Elizabeth had captured Mary's soul, for it was like seeing a ghost, to look at what Elizabeth had made for me.
"Campbell told me tha' yew didn't buy a rose ta place on 'er grave either, so Oi 'ad 'im do it fer yew," Elizabeth added.
"How much do I owe you?" I asked. Though I was referring to the rose, she thought I was talking about the painting she had given me.
"Fer th' painting?" Elizabeth asked, clearly hurt by my question.
"No, no, Elizabeth," I quickly said. "I mean for the rose."
Elizabeth smiled at this.
"Yew owe Sherlock an apology, 'e was only tryin' ta make see th' truth o' things. 'E doesn't much loik it when yew sulk," she replied.
"He is delusional, after all," I declared with a slight smile.
Elizabeth snickered.
"Because 'e seems ta think 'e is th' only person in Baker Street who is allow'd ta sulk?" she guessed.
I nodded, and we both were hard-pressed to stifle our laughter.
"Watson! Elizabeth! If you two don't come down right now for dinner, I'll tell Mrs. Hudson your whereabouts!" shouted Holmes from the bottom of the stairs that led to my room.
At that, we could no longer hold back the flood of laughter and we laughed merrily as Holmes grumbled something about how childish we were behaving, which only served to make us laugh even harder.
That night, I dreamt of Mary again, but this time, I saw her as she was when we first met, young and beautiful, and most importantly of all, she was healthy.
(1) Elizabeth is a talented painter, and she supplements what Holmes earns from his consulting work and Watson from his practice by selling her paintings and by doing commissions.
(2) In "Bleakest Hope", an arsonist's fire guts Watson's practice, leaving the building structurally intact but destroying everything inside, including the only photograph of his wife he owns.