New H/W ~…After the Fall~
Title: …After the Fall
Author: moustache_wax from The Bachelors of Baker Street
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: PG
Summary: A short, sad glimpse into the private journal of Dr. John H. Watson, post-Reichenbach.
Thanks: To all who read this.
Warnings: This is where I usually say something about hot, Victorian man-on-man action, but, alas, there is none this time. Sigh.
~*~
It is needless that I should record these thoughts. It is not as though I will ever escape them. I will never require a written reminder; never open this page again. I suppose it is habit that leads me to take up my pen.
Well over two years ago I published the tale of the death of Sherlock Holmes. In that account, those who followed his cases learned of his struggle and demise at the falls of Reichenbach. They did not learn of my struggle that began at that very site-my own fall into the abyss, one might say. No, that story is more suited to this journal.
My life has not been the same since that crisp spring day in Switzerland. Though it was an especially foolish thought for a doctor, I will admit that until that moment I had regarded Sherlock Holmes as eternal. His successes were so great, and his stains of failure so few, that I could imagine no scenario from which he could not escape. And yet, while I stood at the precipice of the roaring waters, my mind was forced to accept reality: Holmes, very much a mortal man, was no more.
Though I had experienced losses before this, and one all too soon after, I only came to know the extent of grief and pain upon his exit. Pain is such an inadequate word; we use it to describe the sensation of a small abrasion to the flesh and then, just as easily, assign it to the torment of a soul in agony. There is no word substantial enough to communicate the suffering and internal void felt with such a devastating event.
I had no expectation of feeling this way. The mind and heart do strange things in response to death, often providing an immediate burst of knowledge. During his life, Holmes was my valued friend and colleague, but upon his death I suddenly knew how much more than that he was to me. He was my compass, giving my life direction beyond my own common goals. He was my spirit, engaging me in exciting adventures I would never have sought. He was that which was special about me, simply by choosing me to be his only true friend. And now that I may freely admit it to myself without shame, he was my great love.
Perhaps I am a fiend to make such a claim so soon after my dear, sweet Mary has gone. I do not mean to diminish her role in my life, but it was Holmes who truly owned my heart. That may be the most difficult lesson I have learned in his absence. Mary gave me balance and respect, but Holmes fuelled my soul. My life was so complete when lived in his shadow, even if I was too clouded by the mundane appearance of our relationship to know why.
And now-damn it all!-I know the cruel game fate has played on me. I had all a man could desire, much more than I deserved, only to have it wrenched from my grasp. There is nothing I would not give to share his presence during his most intolerable mood, to be ignored while sitting opposite him during a meal, or to be harshly criticised by him for not seeing what he deduced so plainly. I would barter the world even if I were only to have him at his very worst, if it meant I could have him at all. Yet, though I’m willing to give everything, there is no currency to trade in life and death.
What good are revelations if one cannot act on them? Knowing his significance and my own true heart is no balm for my soul. It is only salt for the wound that needed no aid in severity. I would scream out to God if I believed for one moment there was a god listening. Instead I stuff those futile rages within me, buried beneath the mask I wear daily. The years have done nothing to soothe the rage or the ache inside me. Time heals no wounds.
So how is it, with this burden, that I go on still? I allow myself a lie. It does not come easily to me, but if I try very hard, I can wrap myself in the fancy of it for a while. It is simply that one day he will come back. One day he will walk through my door and explain the unexplainable-it was all just a ruse. He is safe. He is alive. And he has returned for me.
~*~