Holmes fic: Shattered
I posted this on shkinkmeme on Sunday, only to realize after the fact that I had made some edits on a print copy that weren't transferred to the electronic version before I posted it. D'oh! So this is slightly modified from what I posted there. I tried to post this last night, but LJ was evidently still having difficulties.
And I don't know... I guess I just really wanted to write suicide!fic this weekend. The feeling was helped by the fact that on Saturday morning I tried to open up a job app I was going to do this weekend (the review of applications was to start yesterday), only to find the job posting had already been taken down! WTF and ARGH.
Title: Shattered
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 5,156
Characters: Holmes, Watson, Mycroft
Warnings: Character deaths (murder, suicide)
Summary: Only one thing can break Sherlock Holmes: losing Watson.
A/N: I took the ending of ACD's Three Garridebs story, changed it, and ran with it from there. Written for the shkinkmeme prompt: I am craving angsty suicide fic from the POV of the person commiting suicide. Preferably a Holmes, though anyone will do. Any verse. any reason. No crack, Serious fic only.
_Shattered_
The worst part was knowing that Watson's death was not a ruse. He had held his friend as he died, watching the blood seep from him as inexorably as the life leaked from his eyes. Killer Evans had lived up to his reputation, and Holmes killed him for it, Watson's blood on his hands as he fired the shot to avenge him.
It was the last useful thing he managed to do.
He couldn't remember how he had gotten home. The last thing he remembered was Lestrade trying to persuade him to release Watson so his body could be taken to the mortuary and properly attended to.
He drifted about the sitting room as in a fog, unwilling to sit in his armchair and confront the empty chair across from it. Time was meaningless, his existence punctuated only by Mrs. Hudson's periodic knocks upon the door. At one point she gently reminded him that a service would need to be scheduled, and if he could not she would take care of things.
Watson had, of course, already made note of his wishes and secured a burial plot; after losing both Holmes and Mary, he had thought the only way to ensure his own funeral would be handled properly was to write them down and make most of the arrangements in advance. All Holmes need do was contact the cemetery and the priest. He let Mrs. Hudson notify Watson's friends and acquaintances of the time and day.
After the funeral and burial -which passed in a blur of others speaking well of Watson, while he could not speak at all, just stare at the coffin being lowered into the ground- Holmes did not leave his bed for days. Or was it weeks? He'd suffered from his moods before, had suffered one just before this case that stole Watson away, but this time was different. The darkness was twice as enveloping, the recriminations more persistent, the guilt profound. He had failed Watson and lost him for it.
Occasionally Mrs. Hudson prevailed upon him to eat something. Sometimes he would sip at the broth or nibble at the toast, not because he wanted to eat, but because it was the only way to make her leave. Sometimes he refused so she would stay, her worried nagging a welcome distraction.
But it wasn't enough. He needed something else, something to keep him from going mad under the oppressive burden of utter failure.
It took three days to muster up the energy to find his syringe. Cocaine could not help, but morphine might.
Morphine deadened the part of his mind that reminded him of his failings, but it made the darkness and guilt ever more inescapable. Still, it was preferable to going without.
Even with rationing himself, he ran out much sooner than he would have liked. Fetching more was quite out of the question in his current state of mind. As he felt the last dose wear off, he decided he might as well try the cocaine.
It was a mistake. His mind instantly seized upon the one memory he sought to avoid and paraded it in front of his eyes with such clarity and detail it felt he were the one being shot in the chest. The moments after the gunshot passed in brutal increments watching Watson fall even as he struck Evans with the butt of his gun. Rushing to Watson and lifting him, pressing his hands to the gaping wound, Watson breathlessly trying to tell him it wasn't his fault even as his eyes began to dim. Rage took hold of him after, and he stalked over to the prostrate Evans, who opened his eyes just in time to see the gun before it went off.
Then someone was shaking his shoulder, calling his name. Lestrade, come to tell him the Scotland Yard inquiry into the death of Killer Evans had been resolved, the death deemed necessary in light of the threat he posed to Holmes' person. He seemed pleased, as if Holmes should be relieved that he wouldn't be arrested for murder, but Holmes could not agree. If he wasn't going to be charged with Evans' death, surely he should at least be held responsible for Watson's. He did not say so to Lestrade, who was now scrutinizing him with concern and perhaps even pity.
He did not say anything, in fact, and Lestrade eventually left. Evidently he met Mrs. Hudson in the sitting room, for Holmes could hear them talking. About him. He looks terrible; no, he hasn't spoken a word since before the funeral, and yes, naturally I'm worried but what would you have me do?
Their conversation blended into the thoughts swirling in his brain, and it was a long time before he realized they'd left and he was alone.
He was so very alone. He felt hollow, empty, vacant, as if Watson had resided within him, not in the bedroom upstairs.
He could not stand it. Being left alone with his thoughts was unbearable, and he finally rose from his bed.
He swayed on his feet, light-headed from the change in orientation, and his body ached, disused muscles protesting the ill-treatment. He staggered into the sitting room, uncertain why he thought that would help, but resolved that he could not remain in his bedroom a moment longer.
This, too, was a mistake. The almost palpable feel of Watson struck him with such force that he felt like he had run headlong into a brick wall. His spirits sank even lower as he took in Watson's pipe upon the table next to a book half-read, an incomplete manuscript on Watson's desk, the empty space where Watson's coat should have hung upon the coatrack.
And it hurt. His heart hurt as if riddled with shards of glass that scraped it raw and left it bleeding from a million tiny cuts. His entire being hurt from the renewed realization that he is never coming back and it is your fault.
He stumbled to the sideboard, took a swig of brandy, then took another, seeking to deaden the pain that was even worse than the guilt.
He drank until he was ill into the wastebasket, then drank some more.
When he regained consciousness, he was rather disappointed that he had. He felt almost ill enough to be able to forget what had driven him to such extremes, so in that regard it was almost a success. But the pounding headache made him sensitive to the sound of traffic outside, to the sunlight filtering in through the curtains, to the smell of himself after being ill and spending an indeterminate period in bed. He desperately needed a bath.
The warm water rushing over him and filling the tub felt delightful on his skin, soothing irritation and itching he hadn't noticed until it was gone. As the water deepened, he considered how easy it would be to slip under and simply . . . cease.
The sudden idea was almost frightening. Not for its existence; he'd considered such measures before, though it had been well over two decades ago. No, it was frightening that he had not thought of it sooner, beautiful in its simplicity, its straightforward resolution to all that ailed him. He had no clients, could accept no clients in his state, his closest friend was dead; he had only Mrs. Hudson -who would, no doubt, rather be rid of his exasperating presence- and his brother to notice he was gone.
Water lapping at his shoulders, he decided to let himself sink and allow nature to take its course.
A sudden noise startled him, and he hauled himself up, coughing and choking. The telephone rang insistently, and he sighed. He wouldn't answer it. The ringing stopped, then resumed, its jangling adding to the piercing pain of his headache. He again sank beneath the surface of the water, this time to muffle the noise.
But the infernal ringing simply would not stop. Finally he rose from the tub, wrapped a towel about himself, and stalked out to the sitting room to unplug the telephone.
Quiet at last.
Taking a deep breath, he returned to the bathroom. As the bathwater slipped down the drain, he stared at himself in the mirror, barely recognizing the gaunt, haggard, unkempt man staring back at him. He really ought to shave, but when he lifted his hand to seek out his razor, it shook so badly that he knew shaving would be unsafe. And he was not quite desperate enough to turn the razor against himself; the odds of an inadequate attempt were too high. The very last thing he wanted was to make such an attempt and live in spite of it.
At least no one would recognize him if he went out.
But why would he go out? Morphine, his mind whispered immediately. Or perhaps even . . . no. He couldn't.
Dressed in workmen's garb, Holmes left Baker Street without a second thought. So unremarkable as to be invisible, he melted into the passersby and let the flow of his fellow pedestrians guide his steps.
Until he was standing before the cemetery, pulled by some invisible force into the neatly-kept grounds and back toward the plot he somehow remembered.
Seeing Watson's name etched in stone renewed the pain in his heart and he struggled not to be ill. He turned on his heel and hurried away.
Finding himself inside an opium den was not a complete surprise, even though he'd sworn this was one vice that could not claim him.
This was not a mistake. As the opium's effects swept through him, he felt better than he had in a very long time. Watson even came to see him for a while, and they conversed over brandy and cigars at the Baker Street fireside as they had always done.
He remained in the den, pipe in hand, for as long as his money lasted. But each time he descended from his visions long enough to signal for more, the visions he returned to were less pleasant. He and Watson no longer chatted at the fireside, they were on a difficult case. Then they were on one of the cases that threatened their lives.
Watson was leaving him for Mary.
He feigned his death, leaving Watson to grieve.
Watson died in his arms.
When he surfaced from the effects of his last pipe, he was gasping for breath and weeping uncontrollably. He had not shed tears for Watson in all the days since his death, and now they came in torrents.
The proprietor had no patience for emotional displays and hurried him out as soon as he was able to stand. Holmes shuffled to a nearby alley and slumped to the ground, his face buried in his hands.
~
He woke in a strange bed in a strange place with a strange woman bending over him. "There you are," she said soothingly. "We were beginning to worry." By the woman's attire and the smell, it was a hospital. "Can you tell me your name?"
He could only stare at her with a blank look. He was certain he had a name -didn't everyone?- but could not seem to force his brain to produce it. All he could think of was his bad headache and a vague feeling of disquiet.
"Do you have any family we could call?"
This inquiry, too, produced absolutely nothing at first. Then a name appeared. "Mycroft," he murmured, surprised at how rough his voice sounded.
"All right, we'll find Mycroft for you," she said sympathetically, then offered him some water.
By the time Mycroft appeared at the hospital to fetch him, Holmes had remembered nearly everything. The doctors said he'd been attacked and beaten within an inch of his life, but why or where Holmes did not know and probably never would. He was fairly certain none of it would have happened if Watson were alive, and that was the only important thing.
Mycroft insisted that he stay with him while he recovered. Holmes tried to protest, but Mycroft fixed him with a look. "Sherlock, allow me this one liberty. You might have died, you know." Though Holmes didn't say that he wished he had, he was fairly certain Mycroft could read it in his eyes, for his sibling frowned. But all Mycroft said was, "My barber will be here in the morning to see to your needs."
Holmes passed a restless night, unable to fully relax due to the lingering pain of his several injuries, the most prominent of which was his broken right forearm. The attentions of the barber helped him feel slightly more like himself, but the profound melancholy gripped him still.
Mycroft insisted that he come to the table for breakfast, but Holmes could only stare dully at his plate. "Come, come, at least have some toast," Mycroft encouraged. The toast mocked him as he mechanically did as he was told; it tasted of ash and settled in his stomach like lead. He felt ill.
"When was the last time you ate a proper meal?" Mycroft asked idly, and Holmes knew it had been too much to hope that his brother of all people would not notice his physical decline.
"I- It doesn't matter," Holmes replied brusquely, pushing himself away from the table and rising hurriedly. "Nothing matters anymore." He retreated to his bedroom and retched into the chamberpot, then lay limply on the floor afterward and wished he could cease his pointless existence.
Mycroft tsked when he found him on the floor, but he lowered himself onto the rug and pulled his brother into an embrace. "How can I help you, Sherlock?" he murmured into Holmes' hair as Holmes trembled in his arms.
"You can't. No one can," he said helplessly around a lump in his throat, and he felt his eyes burn with tears.
"Doctor Watson might have been able to," Mycroft said softly, sadly, and Holmes felt the tears break free. Mycroft wordlessly allowed him to soak the shoulder of his waistcoat and his shirt, and offered a large handkerchief when the weeping began to slow.
He ended up back in bed, and Mycroft bent over him with a syringe. "Your doctors provided this for the pain. Rest for a while, and we will talk later." It was morphine, just a bit, just enough to blunt the edges of his awareness and drop him into sleep.
~
There were but two rules Holmes had to follow while in Mycroft's company: he had to appear, fully dressed and having completed his toilet, at one meal each day, and his presence at both breakfast and dinner was mandatory. He could come to breakfast in his nightshirt, but then he would have to be dressed for dinner. Failure to dress himself for either meal or missing a meal would result in a doctor being summoned. What he did with the time between those meals was left to his discretion, as Mycroft was away at his office during the day.
Doctors were summoned to tend to Holmes eight times in the first fortnight. All of them (Mycroft did not send for the same doctor twice) found nothing physically wrong with him aside from exhaustion and malnourishment, and four suggested sending for a specialist. These visits exhausted Holmes, all the poking and prodding and endless questions; he quickly recognized that complying with Mycroft's rules required far less energy. There were still days where rising from bed was too monumental a task, but they were fairly rare.
Mycroft was a patient man, and allowed Holmes to rattle aimlessly about his flat for some weeks before trying to tempt him with a little government puzzle. Holmes found he did not have the mental energy to be enticed by the papers stacked neatly beside his plate; he went back to bed and stared blankly at the wall instead. Mycroft said nothing of this failure (though Holmes' mind took careful note of it) and let a few more days pass before trying again.
This time, it was a few letters from the piles of post Holmes had left neglected at Baker Street. He listlessly fingered them and, deciding that they might be worth the bother, slit them open with his butter knife. Several were letters of sympathy, assuring him that time heals all wounds; he almost didn't want to read the others, but he did. Old requests for his assistance with trivial matters, which he skimmed only to dismiss with a morose shake of his head. Even if these people still required help, he could not help them. He could not even help himself.
His sole bit of activity that day was feeding the letters to the fire in Mycroft's sitting room.
More letters awaited him at breakfast every day thereafter. Invariably he fed them to the fire, and he did not always read them first. It became something of a ritual, one of the ways he knew that time was passing even if he paid no heed to how much.
But there were still signs of the relentless march of time, signs even he could not ignore. The changes in Mycroft's dress for the outdoors, for instance, and the cast being removed from his arm. He would sometimes forget that his arm had healed, only to be startled by the absence of the plaster.
In those moments he despaired of ever returning to his former self. How could a renowned consulting detective experience such lapses? He wouldn't have, if he were still himself. Now his mind was shattered, hopelessly broken into fragments so small they could never be put together again. Things he knew he used to know were far beyond his recall; mere echoes remained, taunting him with the knowledge that he was no longer the man Watson had so admired.
He would have to retire and would have to announce it publicly. It was the only way he could keep people from seeking him, seeking the skills he no longer possessed.
Or he could retire from life. No one could seek him then, and he would no longer be haunted by his former self, by his memories, by his failings.
One evening Lestrade came. Mycroft entertained him for a time; hearing their voices as he passed down the hall from the bathroom to his bedroom, Holmes stopped where he could listen but not be seen.
"Mrs. Hudson tells me that Mr. Holmes -Mr. Sherlock Holmes, that is- has been staying with you."
"That is true."
"I was hoping he might be willing to help us with a little problem."
"Sherlock is not presently accepting cases."
"Still? Mr. Holmes, it's been months!"
"I am quite aware of how long it has been. My brother has been unwell."
"I'm sorry to hear it."
"Thank you."
"Will he recover soon, do you think?"
"I do not know. I believe he has been considering retirement due to his health."
"Well, that would be a loss. We miss him quite keenly already."
"I will be sure to give him your regards."
"Please do. In that case, I shan't disturb you further, Mr. Holmes. I can see myself out. Good night."
"Good night."
The front door opened and closed and still Holmes remained rooted to his spot in the hallway. He had not told Mycroft of his thoughts of retirement, but it was not really a surprise that he had deduced it.
"Sherlock, come here."
Nor was it a surprise that his brother had known he was in the hallway. Holmes sat in the chair opposite his brother. "Yes, I shall be retiring," he said to answer the unspoken question. "Perhaps I shall retire to the country." Watson liked the country.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "You despise the country."
"I have despised idleness and yet I have done absolutely nothing of use for months," he said despairingly. Mycroft gazed at him keenly but said nothing. "How long has it been, Mycroft?"
"Nearly ten months," he replied gently.
Holmes' shoulders slumped and he looked down at the hands clasped in his lap. They were shaking. Ten months. "It feels like yesterday," he murmured.
"That is not uncommon."
"I don't know how much longer I can live like this," he said helplessly. The fire crackled and he heard Mycroft rise from his chair, but he did not look up.
"I know," Mycroft said sorrowfully, and rested his hand on Holmes' shoulder. "It has always pained me to see you in these states, but this . . . this is the worst I have ever seen you suffer. I wish I could help."
Holmes nodded wordlessly, and Mycroft squeezed his shoulder before stepping back. "Go on to bed, then. Sleep well."
~
He spent the next several days carefully pondering his next steps, trying to ignore the fact that it wouldn't have taken him so long to mull it over in the past. He even went out one afternoon and was startled to find it was spring again. He wandered aimlessly for a while before he found himself in familiar territory; he strolled past Baker Street, careful not to turn down it, and was soon at the cemetery.
A brief rainshower soaked him as he stood reverently before Watson's stone. When he left, his mind was made up. And he would have to act quickly if he was to meet his self-imposed deadline.
Mycroft did not seem surprised when he announced at dinner that he desired to return to his Baker Street digs. "I need to pack up my things. I have decided to retire to Sussex."
"Sussex. I see." And from the way Mycroft looked at him, Holmes thought he meant it. "When will you go to pack?"
"After breakfast."
Mycroft nodded and turned his gaze to the fowl upon his plate. "Do let me know if you need my assistance."
That next morning, Holmes felt more energized than he had in months. He walked with Mycroft to Whitehall, intending to catch a cab from there. Before he could hail one, Mycroft put a hand on his arm and leaned in close. "Sherlock, whenever you decide to leave, do me the courtesy of saying good-bye."
Holmes met his knowing gaze and nodded, unable to speak around the lump in his throat. Mycroft embraced him awkwardly, then drew away almost immediately. "Well, go on then. Mrs. Hudson is expecting you."
"Thank you, Mycroft." Mycroft nodded, acknowledging what Holmes left unsaid, and turned away.
Mrs. Hudson brought a tea tray up about half an hour after Holmes returned. "It is good to see you, Mr. Holmes," she said sincerely. "Mr. Holmes, your brother, mentioned you intend to retire?"
"Yes," he replied, finally turning from his survey of the sitting room to face her. "I am retiring to Sussex. I have returned to pack my things."
"How soon do you expect to be leaving?"
"As soon as I finish packing," he said with a gesture at the room. "Though my belongings may need to remain for a little longer, until I secure an abode. I will pay you the full rent for however long that takes."
"I will be sorry to see you go."
He started with his bedroom, as it was the easiest, containing only his things. Seeing Watson's belongings still caused him acute pain, and he feared despair would drown his intentions should he attempt to start with them; better to begin with his own items and gain some momentum before facing that difficult task. He sorted and sifted, arranging things in heaps and piles, packing some carefully away and disposing of others. He worked almost constantly, day and night. He paused for breakfast and supper -Mycroft had informed Mrs. Hudson of their arrangement and instructed her to continue it- and stopped to sleep only when he couldn't keep his eyes open a moment longer.
It was distressing how many of his notes and jottings no longer made any sense. These he burned along with any post he received. The books he carefully stacked in front of the sitting room bookcases so he could take an inventory and pack them when he was sure he'd found them all. He put most of his clothing in trunks and piled the terribly stained or torn items near the door to be used for rags. When he finished, it hardly looked like the same room.
He moved on to the sitting room. All of the miscellaneous mementoes, oddments, and curiosities went into one crate. His chemistry equipment he cleaned and gingerly packed away, making a note on his list that it was to be donated where it would do the most good. Watson's papers were stacked as they were -incomplete manuscript and all- in a steamer trunk with what he had kept of his own papers. Watson's revolver and his own pistol graced the tops of the stacks. He dithered for a while over his commonplace books, uncertain whether they ought to be kept, and eventually decided to include them with the books and they could be burned later if found to be unnecessary.
After a fortnight of constant work, he allowed himself to go out and start seeing to the other preparations that needed to be made. He spent a morning at the library to confirm a few things, then stopped at a stationer's and the apothecary on his way home. His new calendar he affixed to the mantelpiece with the jackknife, then carefully marked off the days of the month that had already passed. He would mark each day after dinnertime to ensure that he would not miss the date that his plan depended upon. The plan was the only thing that kept him from going out at this very moment and stepping in front of a rushing cab; it would not do to lose track of the days now. The bottle from the apothecary he placed into the empty drawer of his nightstand--it, too, was part of the plan.
With these successes to his credit, he turned his attention to Watson's room. Mrs. Hudson had not disturbed it, save to do the dusting, and though it was as neat as Watson always kept it, it took Holmes much longer to handle Watson's things than it had for his own. He could not resist the memories that overpowered him when he caught a hint of the scent of Watson still in his clothes, or when he saw a particular suit for the first time in quite a while. Even if he could resist, why would he? Watson had been his close friend and he missed him so very much.
He took one of Watson's handkerchiefs and slipped it into his nightstand drawer. Everything else he put away into Watson's trunk and suitcase, and added Watson's books to the collection in the sitting room.
The days slipped away one after another as he inventoried their books and arranged them into crates and sorted anything else he found that had been overlooked earlier. Every few days he allowed himself to go on a ramble, to tend to any matters that arose (and reply to Mycroft's periodic inquiries after his health -he still had not plugged the dratted telephone back in) and to see what he wanted to see for the last time before leaving London.
As the work was completed and he finalized the instructions for the disposition of the crates and trunks, he considered diverging from the plan and departing several days earlier than intended. His tasks were done, so why shouldn't he begin retirement early?
But no, the chosen date had significance -great significance- and he was determined not to fail at his one last act by allowing a premature departure. He could wait a few more days.
The last days were exceedingly difficult to bear, his release nearly within his grasp but held off by his wish to honor Watson in his going. He often fingered the handkerchief he'd tucked away and tried to use the thoughts of Watson to keep himself focused on his goal.
He might have thought that seeing one's last dawn would excite feelings of anxiety and nervousness, but that morning brought him only relief. Only a few more hours, and it would be over.
He plugged the telephone back in and called Mycroft, waiting patiently as they were connected. "Mycroft," he said simply.
"Sherlock. I knew you would be calling."
"Good-bye, Mycroft."
"You are leaving, then. Are you certain this is the only way?"
He faltered, but only slightly. "Yes," he said hoarsely. "I am looking forward to it."
"What time is the train?"
"Two o'clock."
"Shall I accompany you to the station?"
"No, thank you."
"Where will I find you?"
"You know where."
Mycroft sighed heavily. "Yes, I do. I will miss you, Sherlock," his voice sounded thick with emotion.
"I know. But it is better this way." Holmes had some trouble forcing the words out through the tightening in his throat.
"Call me if your plans change."
"Thank you, but I won't be calling."
"I know."
Silence.
"Good-bye, Mycroft."
"Good-bye, Sherlock."
He unplugged the telephone again and moved to stare out the window, strangely calm now that he had talked to Mycroft and reaffirmed his plan.
Seeing Mrs. Hudson at breakfast and bidding her farewell was exceedingly awkward and uncomfortable -particularly when Mrs. Hudson embraced him tightly and he wasn't quite certain how to respond- but it was over fairly quickly. Then, he was alone, free to fulfill what had been his lifeline through the last months.
The contents of his nightstand drawer went into his pockets, and he stepped out of his Baker Street flat for the last time. He carried a small valise, but was otherwise unencumbered as he stepped into the midday traffic of London.
He walked, taking a longer way than was absolutely necessary, and still arrived with plenty of time.
Kneeling before Watson's grave marker, he opened the valise and withdrew a small folded piece of paper, which he tucked between the stone and the soil. "I am so very sorry I failed you, my dear chap," he murmured, his fingers tracing the letters of Watson's name. "I do hope you will forgive me for this. I am very weak, you see. You were the better man by far."
He drew the bottle from his pocket and poured several grains into his palm, then tipped them into his mouth. Having done its service, the bottle was discarded into the valise. Holmes rose and moved so he sat against the back of Watson's stone.
It was only fitting that Watson hold him as he died.
Warmth suffused his body as the morphine took hold. He tipped his head back to look at the sky, his face catching the first few drops of a spring rainshower, and he almost thought he could feel the shattered pieces of himself coming together again at last.
And I don't know... I guess I just really wanted to write suicide!fic this weekend. The feeling was helped by the fact that on Saturday morning I tried to open up a job app I was going to do this weekend (the review of applications was to start yesterday), only to find the job posting had already been taken down! WTF and ARGH.
Title: Shattered
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 5,156
Characters: Holmes, Watson, Mycroft
Warnings: Character deaths (murder, suicide)
Summary: Only one thing can break Sherlock Holmes: losing Watson.
A/N: I took the ending of ACD's Three Garridebs story, changed it, and ran with it from there. Written for the shkinkmeme prompt: I am craving angsty suicide fic from the POV of the person commiting suicide. Preferably a Holmes, though anyone will do. Any verse. any reason. No crack, Serious fic only.
_Shattered_
The worst part was knowing that Watson's death was not a ruse. He had held his friend as he died, watching the blood seep from him as inexorably as the life leaked from his eyes. Killer Evans had lived up to his reputation, and Holmes killed him for it, Watson's blood on his hands as he fired the shot to avenge him.
It was the last useful thing he managed to do.
He couldn't remember how he had gotten home. The last thing he remembered was Lestrade trying to persuade him to release Watson so his body could be taken to the mortuary and properly attended to.
He drifted about the sitting room as in a fog, unwilling to sit in his armchair and confront the empty chair across from it. Time was meaningless, his existence punctuated only by Mrs. Hudson's periodic knocks upon the door. At one point she gently reminded him that a service would need to be scheduled, and if he could not she would take care of things.
Watson had, of course, already made note of his wishes and secured a burial plot; after losing both Holmes and Mary, he had thought the only way to ensure his own funeral would be handled properly was to write them down and make most of the arrangements in advance. All Holmes need do was contact the cemetery and the priest. He let Mrs. Hudson notify Watson's friends and acquaintances of the time and day.
After the funeral and burial -which passed in a blur of others speaking well of Watson, while he could not speak at all, just stare at the coffin being lowered into the ground- Holmes did not leave his bed for days. Or was it weeks? He'd suffered from his moods before, had suffered one just before this case that stole Watson away, but this time was different. The darkness was twice as enveloping, the recriminations more persistent, the guilt profound. He had failed Watson and lost him for it.
Occasionally Mrs. Hudson prevailed upon him to eat something. Sometimes he would sip at the broth or nibble at the toast, not because he wanted to eat, but because it was the only way to make her leave. Sometimes he refused so she would stay, her worried nagging a welcome distraction.
But it wasn't enough. He needed something else, something to keep him from going mad under the oppressive burden of utter failure.
It took three days to muster up the energy to find his syringe. Cocaine could not help, but morphine might.
Morphine deadened the part of his mind that reminded him of his failings, but it made the darkness and guilt ever more inescapable. Still, it was preferable to going without.
Even with rationing himself, he ran out much sooner than he would have liked. Fetching more was quite out of the question in his current state of mind. As he felt the last dose wear off, he decided he might as well try the cocaine.
It was a mistake. His mind instantly seized upon the one memory he sought to avoid and paraded it in front of his eyes with such clarity and detail it felt he were the one being shot in the chest. The moments after the gunshot passed in brutal increments watching Watson fall even as he struck Evans with the butt of his gun. Rushing to Watson and lifting him, pressing his hands to the gaping wound, Watson breathlessly trying to tell him it wasn't his fault even as his eyes began to dim. Rage took hold of him after, and he stalked over to the prostrate Evans, who opened his eyes just in time to see the gun before it went off.
Then someone was shaking his shoulder, calling his name. Lestrade, come to tell him the Scotland Yard inquiry into the death of Killer Evans had been resolved, the death deemed necessary in light of the threat he posed to Holmes' person. He seemed pleased, as if Holmes should be relieved that he wouldn't be arrested for murder, but Holmes could not agree. If he wasn't going to be charged with Evans' death, surely he should at least be held responsible for Watson's. He did not say so to Lestrade, who was now scrutinizing him with concern and perhaps even pity.
He did not say anything, in fact, and Lestrade eventually left. Evidently he met Mrs. Hudson in the sitting room, for Holmes could hear them talking. About him. He looks terrible; no, he hasn't spoken a word since before the funeral, and yes, naturally I'm worried but what would you have me do?
Their conversation blended into the thoughts swirling in his brain, and it was a long time before he realized they'd left and he was alone.
He was so very alone. He felt hollow, empty, vacant, as if Watson had resided within him, not in the bedroom upstairs.
He could not stand it. Being left alone with his thoughts was unbearable, and he finally rose from his bed.
He swayed on his feet, light-headed from the change in orientation, and his body ached, disused muscles protesting the ill-treatment. He staggered into the sitting room, uncertain why he thought that would help, but resolved that he could not remain in his bedroom a moment longer.
This, too, was a mistake. The almost palpable feel of Watson struck him with such force that he felt like he had run headlong into a brick wall. His spirits sank even lower as he took in Watson's pipe upon the table next to a book half-read, an incomplete manuscript on Watson's desk, the empty space where Watson's coat should have hung upon the coatrack.
And it hurt. His heart hurt as if riddled with shards of glass that scraped it raw and left it bleeding from a million tiny cuts. His entire being hurt from the renewed realization that he is never coming back and it is your fault.
He stumbled to the sideboard, took a swig of brandy, then took another, seeking to deaden the pain that was even worse than the guilt.
He drank until he was ill into the wastebasket, then drank some more.
When he regained consciousness, he was rather disappointed that he had. He felt almost ill enough to be able to forget what had driven him to such extremes, so in that regard it was almost a success. But the pounding headache made him sensitive to the sound of traffic outside, to the sunlight filtering in through the curtains, to the smell of himself after being ill and spending an indeterminate period in bed. He desperately needed a bath.
The warm water rushing over him and filling the tub felt delightful on his skin, soothing irritation and itching he hadn't noticed until it was gone. As the water deepened, he considered how easy it would be to slip under and simply . . . cease.
The sudden idea was almost frightening. Not for its existence; he'd considered such measures before, though it had been well over two decades ago. No, it was frightening that he had not thought of it sooner, beautiful in its simplicity, its straightforward resolution to all that ailed him. He had no clients, could accept no clients in his state, his closest friend was dead; he had only Mrs. Hudson -who would, no doubt, rather be rid of his exasperating presence- and his brother to notice he was gone.
Water lapping at his shoulders, he decided to let himself sink and allow nature to take its course.
A sudden noise startled him, and he hauled himself up, coughing and choking. The telephone rang insistently, and he sighed. He wouldn't answer it. The ringing stopped, then resumed, its jangling adding to the piercing pain of his headache. He again sank beneath the surface of the water, this time to muffle the noise.
But the infernal ringing simply would not stop. Finally he rose from the tub, wrapped a towel about himself, and stalked out to the sitting room to unplug the telephone.
Quiet at last.
Taking a deep breath, he returned to the bathroom. As the bathwater slipped down the drain, he stared at himself in the mirror, barely recognizing the gaunt, haggard, unkempt man staring back at him. He really ought to shave, but when he lifted his hand to seek out his razor, it shook so badly that he knew shaving would be unsafe. And he was not quite desperate enough to turn the razor against himself; the odds of an inadequate attempt were too high. The very last thing he wanted was to make such an attempt and live in spite of it.
At least no one would recognize him if he went out.
But why would he go out? Morphine, his mind whispered immediately. Or perhaps even . . . no. He couldn't.
Dressed in workmen's garb, Holmes left Baker Street without a second thought. So unremarkable as to be invisible, he melted into the passersby and let the flow of his fellow pedestrians guide his steps.
Until he was standing before the cemetery, pulled by some invisible force into the neatly-kept grounds and back toward the plot he somehow remembered.
Seeing Watson's name etched in stone renewed the pain in his heart and he struggled not to be ill. He turned on his heel and hurried away.
Finding himself inside an opium den was not a complete surprise, even though he'd sworn this was one vice that could not claim him.
This was not a mistake. As the opium's effects swept through him, he felt better than he had in a very long time. Watson even came to see him for a while, and they conversed over brandy and cigars at the Baker Street fireside as they had always done.
He remained in the den, pipe in hand, for as long as his money lasted. But each time he descended from his visions long enough to signal for more, the visions he returned to were less pleasant. He and Watson no longer chatted at the fireside, they were on a difficult case. Then they were on one of the cases that threatened their lives.
Watson was leaving him for Mary.
He feigned his death, leaving Watson to grieve.
Watson died in his arms.
When he surfaced from the effects of his last pipe, he was gasping for breath and weeping uncontrollably. He had not shed tears for Watson in all the days since his death, and now they came in torrents.
The proprietor had no patience for emotional displays and hurried him out as soon as he was able to stand. Holmes shuffled to a nearby alley and slumped to the ground, his face buried in his hands.
~
He woke in a strange bed in a strange place with a strange woman bending over him. "There you are," she said soothingly. "We were beginning to worry." By the woman's attire and the smell, it was a hospital. "Can you tell me your name?"
He could only stare at her with a blank look. He was certain he had a name -didn't everyone?- but could not seem to force his brain to produce it. All he could think of was his bad headache and a vague feeling of disquiet.
"Do you have any family we could call?"
This inquiry, too, produced absolutely nothing at first. Then a name appeared. "Mycroft," he murmured, surprised at how rough his voice sounded.
"All right, we'll find Mycroft for you," she said sympathetically, then offered him some water.
By the time Mycroft appeared at the hospital to fetch him, Holmes had remembered nearly everything. The doctors said he'd been attacked and beaten within an inch of his life, but why or where Holmes did not know and probably never would. He was fairly certain none of it would have happened if Watson were alive, and that was the only important thing.
Mycroft insisted that he stay with him while he recovered. Holmes tried to protest, but Mycroft fixed him with a look. "Sherlock, allow me this one liberty. You might have died, you know." Though Holmes didn't say that he wished he had, he was fairly certain Mycroft could read it in his eyes, for his sibling frowned. But all Mycroft said was, "My barber will be here in the morning to see to your needs."
Holmes passed a restless night, unable to fully relax due to the lingering pain of his several injuries, the most prominent of which was his broken right forearm. The attentions of the barber helped him feel slightly more like himself, but the profound melancholy gripped him still.
Mycroft insisted that he come to the table for breakfast, but Holmes could only stare dully at his plate. "Come, come, at least have some toast," Mycroft encouraged. The toast mocked him as he mechanically did as he was told; it tasted of ash and settled in his stomach like lead. He felt ill.
"When was the last time you ate a proper meal?" Mycroft asked idly, and Holmes knew it had been too much to hope that his brother of all people would not notice his physical decline.
"I- It doesn't matter," Holmes replied brusquely, pushing himself away from the table and rising hurriedly. "Nothing matters anymore." He retreated to his bedroom and retched into the chamberpot, then lay limply on the floor afterward and wished he could cease his pointless existence.
Mycroft tsked when he found him on the floor, but he lowered himself onto the rug and pulled his brother into an embrace. "How can I help you, Sherlock?" he murmured into Holmes' hair as Holmes trembled in his arms.
"You can't. No one can," he said helplessly around a lump in his throat, and he felt his eyes burn with tears.
"Doctor Watson might have been able to," Mycroft said softly, sadly, and Holmes felt the tears break free. Mycroft wordlessly allowed him to soak the shoulder of his waistcoat and his shirt, and offered a large handkerchief when the weeping began to slow.
He ended up back in bed, and Mycroft bent over him with a syringe. "Your doctors provided this for the pain. Rest for a while, and we will talk later." It was morphine, just a bit, just enough to blunt the edges of his awareness and drop him into sleep.
~
There were but two rules Holmes had to follow while in Mycroft's company: he had to appear, fully dressed and having completed his toilet, at one meal each day, and his presence at both breakfast and dinner was mandatory. He could come to breakfast in his nightshirt, but then he would have to be dressed for dinner. Failure to dress himself for either meal or missing a meal would result in a doctor being summoned. What he did with the time between those meals was left to his discretion, as Mycroft was away at his office during the day.
Doctors were summoned to tend to Holmes eight times in the first fortnight. All of them (Mycroft did not send for the same doctor twice) found nothing physically wrong with him aside from exhaustion and malnourishment, and four suggested sending for a specialist. These visits exhausted Holmes, all the poking and prodding and endless questions; he quickly recognized that complying with Mycroft's rules required far less energy. There were still days where rising from bed was too monumental a task, but they were fairly rare.
Mycroft was a patient man, and allowed Holmes to rattle aimlessly about his flat for some weeks before trying to tempt him with a little government puzzle. Holmes found he did not have the mental energy to be enticed by the papers stacked neatly beside his plate; he went back to bed and stared blankly at the wall instead. Mycroft said nothing of this failure (though Holmes' mind took careful note of it) and let a few more days pass before trying again.
This time, it was a few letters from the piles of post Holmes had left neglected at Baker Street. He listlessly fingered them and, deciding that they might be worth the bother, slit them open with his butter knife. Several were letters of sympathy, assuring him that time heals all wounds; he almost didn't want to read the others, but he did. Old requests for his assistance with trivial matters, which he skimmed only to dismiss with a morose shake of his head. Even if these people still required help, he could not help them. He could not even help himself.
His sole bit of activity that day was feeding the letters to the fire in Mycroft's sitting room.
More letters awaited him at breakfast every day thereafter. Invariably he fed them to the fire, and he did not always read them first. It became something of a ritual, one of the ways he knew that time was passing even if he paid no heed to how much.
But there were still signs of the relentless march of time, signs even he could not ignore. The changes in Mycroft's dress for the outdoors, for instance, and the cast being removed from his arm. He would sometimes forget that his arm had healed, only to be startled by the absence of the plaster.
In those moments he despaired of ever returning to his former self. How could a renowned consulting detective experience such lapses? He wouldn't have, if he were still himself. Now his mind was shattered, hopelessly broken into fragments so small they could never be put together again. Things he knew he used to know were far beyond his recall; mere echoes remained, taunting him with the knowledge that he was no longer the man Watson had so admired.
He would have to retire and would have to announce it publicly. It was the only way he could keep people from seeking him, seeking the skills he no longer possessed.
Or he could retire from life. No one could seek him then, and he would no longer be haunted by his former self, by his memories, by his failings.
One evening Lestrade came. Mycroft entertained him for a time; hearing their voices as he passed down the hall from the bathroom to his bedroom, Holmes stopped where he could listen but not be seen.
"Mrs. Hudson tells me that Mr. Holmes -Mr. Sherlock Holmes, that is- has been staying with you."
"That is true."
"I was hoping he might be willing to help us with a little problem."
"Sherlock is not presently accepting cases."
"Still? Mr. Holmes, it's been months!"
"I am quite aware of how long it has been. My brother has been unwell."
"I'm sorry to hear it."
"Thank you."
"Will he recover soon, do you think?"
"I do not know. I believe he has been considering retirement due to his health."
"Well, that would be a loss. We miss him quite keenly already."
"I will be sure to give him your regards."
"Please do. In that case, I shan't disturb you further, Mr. Holmes. I can see myself out. Good night."
"Good night."
The front door opened and closed and still Holmes remained rooted to his spot in the hallway. He had not told Mycroft of his thoughts of retirement, but it was not really a surprise that he had deduced it.
"Sherlock, come here."
Nor was it a surprise that his brother had known he was in the hallway. Holmes sat in the chair opposite his brother. "Yes, I shall be retiring," he said to answer the unspoken question. "Perhaps I shall retire to the country." Watson liked the country.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "You despise the country."
"I have despised idleness and yet I have done absolutely nothing of use for months," he said despairingly. Mycroft gazed at him keenly but said nothing. "How long has it been, Mycroft?"
"Nearly ten months," he replied gently.
Holmes' shoulders slumped and he looked down at the hands clasped in his lap. They were shaking. Ten months. "It feels like yesterday," he murmured.
"That is not uncommon."
"I don't know how much longer I can live like this," he said helplessly. The fire crackled and he heard Mycroft rise from his chair, but he did not look up.
"I know," Mycroft said sorrowfully, and rested his hand on Holmes' shoulder. "It has always pained me to see you in these states, but this . . . this is the worst I have ever seen you suffer. I wish I could help."
Holmes nodded wordlessly, and Mycroft squeezed his shoulder before stepping back. "Go on to bed, then. Sleep well."
~
He spent the next several days carefully pondering his next steps, trying to ignore the fact that it wouldn't have taken him so long to mull it over in the past. He even went out one afternoon and was startled to find it was spring again. He wandered aimlessly for a while before he found himself in familiar territory; he strolled past Baker Street, careful not to turn down it, and was soon at the cemetery.
A brief rainshower soaked him as he stood reverently before Watson's stone. When he left, his mind was made up. And he would have to act quickly if he was to meet his self-imposed deadline.
Mycroft did not seem surprised when he announced at dinner that he desired to return to his Baker Street digs. "I need to pack up my things. I have decided to retire to Sussex."
"Sussex. I see." And from the way Mycroft looked at him, Holmes thought he meant it. "When will you go to pack?"
"After breakfast."
Mycroft nodded and turned his gaze to the fowl upon his plate. "Do let me know if you need my assistance."
That next morning, Holmes felt more energized than he had in months. He walked with Mycroft to Whitehall, intending to catch a cab from there. Before he could hail one, Mycroft put a hand on his arm and leaned in close. "Sherlock, whenever you decide to leave, do me the courtesy of saying good-bye."
Holmes met his knowing gaze and nodded, unable to speak around the lump in his throat. Mycroft embraced him awkwardly, then drew away almost immediately. "Well, go on then. Mrs. Hudson is expecting you."
"Thank you, Mycroft." Mycroft nodded, acknowledging what Holmes left unsaid, and turned away.
Mrs. Hudson brought a tea tray up about half an hour after Holmes returned. "It is good to see you, Mr. Holmes," she said sincerely. "Mr. Holmes, your brother, mentioned you intend to retire?"
"Yes," he replied, finally turning from his survey of the sitting room to face her. "I am retiring to Sussex. I have returned to pack my things."
"How soon do you expect to be leaving?"
"As soon as I finish packing," he said with a gesture at the room. "Though my belongings may need to remain for a little longer, until I secure an abode. I will pay you the full rent for however long that takes."
"I will be sorry to see you go."
He started with his bedroom, as it was the easiest, containing only his things. Seeing Watson's belongings still caused him acute pain, and he feared despair would drown his intentions should he attempt to start with them; better to begin with his own items and gain some momentum before facing that difficult task. He sorted and sifted, arranging things in heaps and piles, packing some carefully away and disposing of others. He worked almost constantly, day and night. He paused for breakfast and supper -Mycroft had informed Mrs. Hudson of their arrangement and instructed her to continue it- and stopped to sleep only when he couldn't keep his eyes open a moment longer.
It was distressing how many of his notes and jottings no longer made any sense. These he burned along with any post he received. The books he carefully stacked in front of the sitting room bookcases so he could take an inventory and pack them when he was sure he'd found them all. He put most of his clothing in trunks and piled the terribly stained or torn items near the door to be used for rags. When he finished, it hardly looked like the same room.
He moved on to the sitting room. All of the miscellaneous mementoes, oddments, and curiosities went into one crate. His chemistry equipment he cleaned and gingerly packed away, making a note on his list that it was to be donated where it would do the most good. Watson's papers were stacked as they were -incomplete manuscript and all- in a steamer trunk with what he had kept of his own papers. Watson's revolver and his own pistol graced the tops of the stacks. He dithered for a while over his commonplace books, uncertain whether they ought to be kept, and eventually decided to include them with the books and they could be burned later if found to be unnecessary.
After a fortnight of constant work, he allowed himself to go out and start seeing to the other preparations that needed to be made. He spent a morning at the library to confirm a few things, then stopped at a stationer's and the apothecary on his way home. His new calendar he affixed to the mantelpiece with the jackknife, then carefully marked off the days of the month that had already passed. He would mark each day after dinnertime to ensure that he would not miss the date that his plan depended upon. The plan was the only thing that kept him from going out at this very moment and stepping in front of a rushing cab; it would not do to lose track of the days now. The bottle from the apothecary he placed into the empty drawer of his nightstand--it, too, was part of the plan.
With these successes to his credit, he turned his attention to Watson's room. Mrs. Hudson had not disturbed it, save to do the dusting, and though it was as neat as Watson always kept it, it took Holmes much longer to handle Watson's things than it had for his own. He could not resist the memories that overpowered him when he caught a hint of the scent of Watson still in his clothes, or when he saw a particular suit for the first time in quite a while. Even if he could resist, why would he? Watson had been his close friend and he missed him so very much.
He took one of Watson's handkerchiefs and slipped it into his nightstand drawer. Everything else he put away into Watson's trunk and suitcase, and added Watson's books to the collection in the sitting room.
The days slipped away one after another as he inventoried their books and arranged them into crates and sorted anything else he found that had been overlooked earlier. Every few days he allowed himself to go on a ramble, to tend to any matters that arose (and reply to Mycroft's periodic inquiries after his health -he still had not plugged the dratted telephone back in) and to see what he wanted to see for the last time before leaving London.
As the work was completed and he finalized the instructions for the disposition of the crates and trunks, he considered diverging from the plan and departing several days earlier than intended. His tasks were done, so why shouldn't he begin retirement early?
But no, the chosen date had significance -great significance- and he was determined not to fail at his one last act by allowing a premature departure. He could wait a few more days.
The last days were exceedingly difficult to bear, his release nearly within his grasp but held off by his wish to honor Watson in his going. He often fingered the handkerchief he'd tucked away and tried to use the thoughts of Watson to keep himself focused on his goal.
He might have thought that seeing one's last dawn would excite feelings of anxiety and nervousness, but that morning brought him only relief. Only a few more hours, and it would be over.
He plugged the telephone back in and called Mycroft, waiting patiently as they were connected. "Mycroft," he said simply.
"Sherlock. I knew you would be calling."
"Good-bye, Mycroft."
"You are leaving, then. Are you certain this is the only way?"
He faltered, but only slightly. "Yes," he said hoarsely. "I am looking forward to it."
"What time is the train?"
"Two o'clock."
"Shall I accompany you to the station?"
"No, thank you."
"Where will I find you?"
"You know where."
Mycroft sighed heavily. "Yes, I do. I will miss you, Sherlock," his voice sounded thick with emotion.
"I know. But it is better this way." Holmes had some trouble forcing the words out through the tightening in his throat.
"Call me if your plans change."
"Thank you, but I won't be calling."
"I know."
Silence.
"Good-bye, Mycroft."
"Good-bye, Sherlock."
He unplugged the telephone again and moved to stare out the window, strangely calm now that he had talked to Mycroft and reaffirmed his plan.
Seeing Mrs. Hudson at breakfast and bidding her farewell was exceedingly awkward and uncomfortable -particularly when Mrs. Hudson embraced him tightly and he wasn't quite certain how to respond- but it was over fairly quickly. Then, he was alone, free to fulfill what had been his lifeline through the last months.
The contents of his nightstand drawer went into his pockets, and he stepped out of his Baker Street flat for the last time. He carried a small valise, but was otherwise unencumbered as he stepped into the midday traffic of London.
He walked, taking a longer way than was absolutely necessary, and still arrived with plenty of time.
Kneeling before Watson's grave marker, he opened the valise and withdrew a small folded piece of paper, which he tucked between the stone and the soil. "I am so very sorry I failed you, my dear chap," he murmured, his fingers tracing the letters of Watson's name. "I do hope you will forgive me for this. I am very weak, you see. You were the better man by far."
He drew the bottle from his pocket and poured several grains into his palm, then tipped them into his mouth. Having done its service, the bottle was discarded into the valise. Holmes rose and moved so he sat against the back of Watson's stone.
It was only fitting that Watson hold him as he died.
Warmth suffused his body as the morphine took hold. He tipped his head back to look at the sky, his face catching the first few drops of a spring rainshower, and he almost thought he could feel the shattered pieces of himself coming together again at last.