Fic: "The Secrets of John H. Watson".
Title: The Secrets of John H. Watson
Author: illuminatius
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (Movie), specifically, Sherlock Holmes 2: Game of Shadows.
Pairing or character/s: One-sided John/Sherlock, John/Mary, Sherlock/Irene, Sherlock/Simsa.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Canon character death mentioned, and a little angst.
Beta: grringirl at tumblr.
Word count: 1300.
Summary: John Hamish Watson was a man who held many secrets.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to their respective creators. No profit is made is from this story. Redistribution without permission from the author is forbidden.
A/N: Comments and constructive criticism are loved.
John Hamish Watson was a man who held many secrets. When working with someone as investigative as Sherlock Holmes, you needed to make sure to keep tidbits of information to yourself; most of the time, Holmes would be able to figure those secrets out, but even he did not know John’s innermost secrets. Neither Holmes nor Mary had ever known of them; these were secrets he kept, secrets that would never be revealed until he drew his last breath. Granted, that was not very far away; John had passed his eightieth birthday, left widowed and without his best friend, his son and daughter away with their own families. It was by own volition that they put him in a nursing home, where the orderlies took good care of him.
John Watson had lost his vitality many years ago, left bed-ridden and ill and living his very last days as the early winter snow fell on the streets of London. There was no cure for what he had, spread throughout his entire body, a cancer which slowly sapped this strength. Pale and thin, his hair long gone, yet moustache still remaining, John wrote down what he could never say while alive, but wanted people to know when he was not.
John Watson - doctor, faithful husband and constant companion - had three secrets he never shared; three secrets that Sherlock Holmes never knew about.
First, once during his time in Afghanistan, when the air was particularly tense, John had a small tryst with one of the soldiers in his platoon. It was brief, quiet and satisfying; both of them silent during it, their only goal to bring each other to release, to show them that they were alive amidst all of this death. Neither spoke about it afterwards, and John was the one who left Afghanistan alive.
The second was about his dear departed wife, Mary. John loved her deeply. She was one of a kind, a smart and beautiful woman who gave him joy, a family, and a lifetime of memories he would always cherish. John loved Mary and would always tell her that, but every time he said that she was the one true love of his life, he also lied to her, for she was not. And the guilt of his lies weighed him down, but he could never tell her the truth: that she deserved better, a man who would love her the most.
The third was about his friend, his best friend, Sherlock Holmes. It had taken John some time to figure out, but the love he had felt for this best friend was not completely platonic. From the time that they first met, to the time when he left their partnership to focus on his family, John Watson admired Sherlock Holmes; an admiration that grew into love, a love which he could not act upon. Holmes had always been a ladies’ man; with Irene - whom Holmes never stopped mourning - and Simsa, who he had struck up a relationship with after his return. John did not dare to act on his feelings for Holmes, in fear that he would be rejected and his friendship would end.
There were times, however, where the urge to act was so strong that it took every ounce of willpower to resist. During John and Mary’s honeymoon trip, Sherlock had appeared dressed as a lady, and ended up throwing John’s wife off the train. The rage had fueled him into fighting Holmes, and as Holmes laid there under him - shirt ripped to show off his lean frame, lipstick smudged, face flushed - John had to resist every urge to kiss him then and there, assassins be damned. The window of opportunity passed him by, however, as their assailants entered their compartment with their rifles pointed at the two, while John’s head had somehow ended up between Holmes’ legs.
When John had later on expressed shock at Holmes calling their friendship “a relationship”, Holmes had taken it back quickly, and John was sure that his heart broke a little.
The second time had been at the peace summit, where Holmes suddenly stood in front John, his intention to dance clear as day. Watson wouldn’t have said no even if both of his legs were broken, and so he found himself on the dance floor with Holmes leading their path through the dancing couples. Despite the fact that there were hundreds of people here, watching them, John wanted nothing more than to hold Holmes closer, nuzzle his neck and whisper sweet nothings in his ear. Of course, the reality of his situation was apparent from the moment Holmes began discussing their current case; this would never be the way he wanted it to. John had already resigned to the fact that their relationship would be strictly platonic. His friendship with Holmes would suffice.
Of course, an hour later John was pretty sure that Holmes had died, and that his world had died along with his best friend. John did not start to cry until he was all alone, the tears running down his cheeks as he sobbed and screamed. That was not supposed to happen. Sherlock Holmes was not supposed to die. They were supposed to grow old together, working side by side as they always had. Mary was supposed to chide Holmes for being a bad influence on John, and Holmes would be the future godfather children. Holmes was not supposed to plunge into icy waters and die.
As it turned out, he did not, and John had never felt such a big relief in his entire life, hugging Holmes as if the man would fade away if he let go. John had wanted to say so many things - “I love you” “Please don’t leave me ever again” - but he found himself unable to do anything but hold on this impossible man.
Holmes had stayed true to his word; he did not ask John to help with the investigations, but John could not resist helping him occasionally. However, Holmes eventually married Simsa (with John, trying desperately not to break down during the proceedings, being his best man) and Mary was pregnant; he felt that staying with her was the best thing to do right now. Their children were born healthy and beautiful, and Holmes became the godfather of both; John still ached for Holmes, more than he should, but his life with Mary was wonderful and he did not regret the times he shared with her, even though he loved Holmes so much more.
And then Holmes was truly dead, with a proper burial and wake, with Mycroft crying and Mary crying and Simsa too stunned to shed a tear for her husband. John just stared at the coffin that housed his best friend, cursing the bullet that had led to his demise. Holmes had died doing what he loved the most and to John, that was a comfort, no matter how small.
As John finished writing down his thoughts, his hand now too shaky to write anymore, he folded the paper as best he could, hoping that someone would read and understand what he wanted to say. John Watson had kept many secrets, but now was the time to come clean. He could almost feel his life draining away, and for a brief moment, as he closed his eyes, John could have sworn that he heard the faint sound of Holmes’ voice calling out to him, as it had done so many times before.
The orderlies found him the next day, dead, with a paper in his hand and a smile on his face. Because now, John Watson finally got to tell the world of how he loved Sherlock Holmes, the most impossible and wonderful man he had ever met.
Author: illuminatius
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (Movie), specifically, Sherlock Holmes 2: Game of Shadows.
Pairing or character/s: One-sided John/Sherlock, John/Mary, Sherlock/Irene, Sherlock/Simsa.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Canon character death mentioned, and a little angst.
Beta: grringirl at tumblr.
Word count: 1300.
Summary: John Hamish Watson was a man who held many secrets.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to their respective creators. No profit is made is from this story. Redistribution without permission from the author is forbidden.
A/N: Comments and constructive criticism are loved.
John Hamish Watson was a man who held many secrets. When working with someone as investigative as Sherlock Holmes, you needed to make sure to keep tidbits of information to yourself; most of the time, Holmes would be able to figure those secrets out, but even he did not know John’s innermost secrets. Neither Holmes nor Mary had ever known of them; these were secrets he kept, secrets that would never be revealed until he drew his last breath. Granted, that was not very far away; John had passed his eightieth birthday, left widowed and without his best friend, his son and daughter away with their own families. It was by own volition that they put him in a nursing home, where the orderlies took good care of him.
John Watson had lost his vitality many years ago, left bed-ridden and ill and living his very last days as the early winter snow fell on the streets of London. There was no cure for what he had, spread throughout his entire body, a cancer which slowly sapped this strength. Pale and thin, his hair long gone, yet moustache still remaining, John wrote down what he could never say while alive, but wanted people to know when he was not.
John Watson - doctor, faithful husband and constant companion - had three secrets he never shared; three secrets that Sherlock Holmes never knew about.
First, once during his time in Afghanistan, when the air was particularly tense, John had a small tryst with one of the soldiers in his platoon. It was brief, quiet and satisfying; both of them silent during it, their only goal to bring each other to release, to show them that they were alive amidst all of this death. Neither spoke about it afterwards, and John was the one who left Afghanistan alive.
The second was about his dear departed wife, Mary. John loved her deeply. She was one of a kind, a smart and beautiful woman who gave him joy, a family, and a lifetime of memories he would always cherish. John loved Mary and would always tell her that, but every time he said that she was the one true love of his life, he also lied to her, for she was not. And the guilt of his lies weighed him down, but he could never tell her the truth: that she deserved better, a man who would love her the most.
The third was about his friend, his best friend, Sherlock Holmes. It had taken John some time to figure out, but the love he had felt for this best friend was not completely platonic. From the time that they first met, to the time when he left their partnership to focus on his family, John Watson admired Sherlock Holmes; an admiration that grew into love, a love which he could not act upon. Holmes had always been a ladies’ man; with Irene - whom Holmes never stopped mourning - and Simsa, who he had struck up a relationship with after his return. John did not dare to act on his feelings for Holmes, in fear that he would be rejected and his friendship would end.
There were times, however, where the urge to act was so strong that it took every ounce of willpower to resist. During John and Mary’s honeymoon trip, Sherlock had appeared dressed as a lady, and ended up throwing John’s wife off the train. The rage had fueled him into fighting Holmes, and as Holmes laid there under him - shirt ripped to show off his lean frame, lipstick smudged, face flushed - John had to resist every urge to kiss him then and there, assassins be damned. The window of opportunity passed him by, however, as their assailants entered their compartment with their rifles pointed at the two, while John’s head had somehow ended up between Holmes’ legs.
When John had later on expressed shock at Holmes calling their friendship “a relationship”, Holmes had taken it back quickly, and John was sure that his heart broke a little.
The second time had been at the peace summit, where Holmes suddenly stood in front John, his intention to dance clear as day. Watson wouldn’t have said no even if both of his legs were broken, and so he found himself on the dance floor with Holmes leading their path through the dancing couples. Despite the fact that there were hundreds of people here, watching them, John wanted nothing more than to hold Holmes closer, nuzzle his neck and whisper sweet nothings in his ear. Of course, the reality of his situation was apparent from the moment Holmes began discussing their current case; this would never be the way he wanted it to. John had already resigned to the fact that their relationship would be strictly platonic. His friendship with Holmes would suffice.
Of course, an hour later John was pretty sure that Holmes had died, and that his world had died along with his best friend. John did not start to cry until he was all alone, the tears running down his cheeks as he sobbed and screamed. That was not supposed to happen. Sherlock Holmes was not supposed to die. They were supposed to grow old together, working side by side as they always had. Mary was supposed to chide Holmes for being a bad influence on John, and Holmes would be the future godfather children. Holmes was not supposed to plunge into icy waters and die.
As it turned out, he did not, and John had never felt such a big relief in his entire life, hugging Holmes as if the man would fade away if he let go. John had wanted to say so many things - “I love you” “Please don’t leave me ever again” - but he found himself unable to do anything but hold on this impossible man.
Holmes had stayed true to his word; he did not ask John to help with the investigations, but John could not resist helping him occasionally. However, Holmes eventually married Simsa (with John, trying desperately not to break down during the proceedings, being his best man) and Mary was pregnant; he felt that staying with her was the best thing to do right now. Their children were born healthy and beautiful, and Holmes became the godfather of both; John still ached for Holmes, more than he should, but his life with Mary was wonderful and he did not regret the times he shared with her, even though he loved Holmes so much more.
And then Holmes was truly dead, with a proper burial and wake, with Mycroft crying and Mary crying and Simsa too stunned to shed a tear for her husband. John just stared at the coffin that housed his best friend, cursing the bullet that had led to his demise. Holmes had died doing what he loved the most and to John, that was a comfort, no matter how small.
As John finished writing down his thoughts, his hand now too shaky to write anymore, he folded the paper as best he could, hoping that someone would read and understand what he wanted to say. John Watson had kept many secrets, but now was the time to come clean. He could almost feel his life draining away, and for a brief moment, as he closed his eyes, John could have sworn that he heard the faint sound of Holmes’ voice calling out to him, as it had done so many times before.
The orderlies found him the next day, dead, with a paper in his hand and a smile on his face. Because now, John Watson finally got to tell the world of how he loved Sherlock Holmes, the most impossible and wonderful man he had ever met.