July 18 - Handwritten
Title: Cold Comfort
Author: Pompey
Universe: William S. Baring-Gould (in which Watson married Constance Adams before Mary Morstan)
Rating: PG
Warnings: unrequited slash
Word count: 213
Summary: The only thing as hard as grieving is watching a loved one grieve.
Prompt: July 18 - And with this pen, I thee wed/From my heart to your distress
At the funeral Watson had been stone-faced, remote, detached. I had not determined if it was still the shock of losing his wife to such a sudden illness or if it was a deliberate way to ensure he kept his composure. Afterward, he politely and quietly turned down my offer for him to return to Baker Street for the day. Just as politely and quietly, he refused my offer - admittedly made with some hesitance - for me to join him at his home.
I knew very well that he was returning to an empty house, having already given the maid and cook the day off. But since privacy seemed to be what his grief demanded, then privacy he should have. I would not - would not! - so much as let myself imagine Watson weeping alone, hurting alone.
Nor would I imagine myself going to him, kissing away each tear; embracing him; showing him he could finally let down the brave, stoic façade and I would not be repulsed or embarrassed; lessening his grief just a fraction. They were selfish thoughts, caring more for my wants than his needs, especially at this time. He had already lost a wife. If he knew my true feelings towards him, he would very likely lose a friend as well.
Author: Pompey
Universe: William S. Baring-Gould (in which Watson married Constance Adams before Mary Morstan)
Rating: PG
Warnings: unrequited slash
Word count: 213
Summary: The only thing as hard as grieving is watching a loved one grieve.
Prompt: July 18 - And with this pen, I thee wed/From my heart to your distress
At the funeral Watson had been stone-faced, remote, detached. I had not determined if it was still the shock of losing his wife to such a sudden illness or if it was a deliberate way to ensure he kept his composure. Afterward, he politely and quietly turned down my offer for him to return to Baker Street for the day. Just as politely and quietly, he refused my offer - admittedly made with some hesitance - for me to join him at his home.
I knew very well that he was returning to an empty house, having already given the maid and cook the day off. But since privacy seemed to be what his grief demanded, then privacy he should have. I would not - would not! - so much as let myself imagine Watson weeping alone, hurting alone.
Nor would I imagine myself going to him, kissing away each tear; embracing him; showing him he could finally let down the brave, stoic façade and I would not be repulsed or embarrassed; lessening his grief just a fraction. They were selfish thoughts, caring more for my wants than his needs, especially at this time. He had already lost a wife. If he knew my true feelings towards him, he would very likely lose a friend as well.