Fic for radialarch: The Choices We Make
Title: The Choices We Make
Characters: Joan Watson, Irene Adler, Sherlock Holmes
Warnings: Mentions of drug abuse/addiction
Summary: Joan Watson hadn’t been entirely truthful with Sherlock Holmes on the night she presented him with the lost letters from ‘Irene Adler’.
Author: marcal_92
Recipient: radialarch - I hope you like it:)
Notes: This fic does have a companion piece, which I will link to after the reveal. It is not necessary to read that piece first. Also, this fic was written before the final few episodes of the season and before we knew about Irene, so it’s a bit AU :)
Joan Watson hadn’t been entirely truthful with Sherlock Holmes on the night she presented him with the lost letters from ‘Irene Adler’. As she stood before him, her hand outstretched, she assured the man that she had not read them. And in part, that was true. Joan had not read a single letter that she handed over to Sherlock. She hadn’t so much as glanced at a word on the pages that he threw into the blender. The words concealed within those envelopes were secret and would remain so.
But what Joan hadn’t told Sherlock, was that a single letter remained. A lone blue envelope with his name scrawled across the front in an elegant script. Joan assumed that it had fallen free from the original collection and rescued itself from the fate of the blender. She thought of tearing it in half, destroying it as Sherlock had destroyed all the others, but as she held the paper in her hand, the curl and tilt of the lettering halted her. This letter was written by a person who Sherlock cared for, who cared for him. There could be insight in Irene’s words, a deeper clue to who Sherlock truly was and what made him this man. She fought the urge to break his confidence, to rifle through his memories. It was clear to Joan that they were painful ones, but why?
Her fingers twitched and her teeth tugged at her bottom lip as Joan argued with herself. She knew the words were private, but part of her desperately needed to understand why they caused Sherlock such agony.
With a quick glance at her closed bedroom door, Joan slipped her fingers into the envelope and removed the still nearly crisp paper from inside. She slowly backed herself against the door to ensure there was no interruption from the detective who, to the best of Joan’s knowledge, was still downstairs. Once she felt sufficiently alone, Joan allowed her eyes to fall to the words on the page.
*****
It seemed as if ages had passed since their first encounter outside the London Opera House, but in truth, it had been months since the evening Irene and Sherlock had become smitten with each other. She had welcomed his invitations to tea and had been flattered when he asked for her aid in solving the cases he picked up from Scotland Yard. It seemed that Sherlock Holmes, being the genius that he was, reveled in the idea of decoding Irene Adler’s mind. She was sharp; she could read him so much better than he knew himself and that fact intrigued him. It was as if Sherlock had never met a mind to rival his own. This did not surprise Irene in the slightest. Sherlock was a brilliant man.
But for Sherlock Holmes, brilliance and genius begot demons.
Irene had begun penning letters to Sherlock weeks earlier. He had fallen deeper into a drug addled state and had basically locked himself away from the outside world. Her constant contact with him had come to an abrupt end and although she worried terribly, there was nothing she could do to help him. She knew that his brain crumbled at the prospect of boredom and he had told Irene himself on many occasions that his drug use was not a problem; it was something he could control. Never had that been further from the truth. Irene could feel him slipping. She could feel him pulling further and further away, drawing into himself and deeper into his addiction.
The letters started off as a way to let him know that she was still there, that she cared for him deeply and that she wanted to help him. Irene wished desperately that he would allow her to do so. As time progressed, the general messages remained the same, but her pleas to him began to diminish. It was abundantly clear that Sherlock did not want help. As much as she cared for him, Irene could not allow herself to watch him spiral into oblivion.
The opera season was coming to a close and Irene was scheduled to perform in the final show. While Sherlock had promised to attend, and attend sober, Irene did not hold out much hope. She wrote him once again, her letter this time, taking painstakingly long to write:
My Dearest Sherlock,
I have lost track of the number of letters which I have slipped under your door. A dozen? Perhaps more? What I do know is that each and every note I send to you says the same thing. You, my love, are a brilliant man. Far more brilliant than anyone I have ever met or am likely to meet again in my lifetime. Yet, your brilliance is shrouded by the poisons you use to litter your mind.
I worry about you constantly. There were some days that I feared I may lose you forever. It is only now that I realize I have already lost you. I lost you a long time ago, Sherlock. The man you were when we first met has disappeared and I am left wondering if he will ever return.
I used to believe that I could be the one to change you. I thought I had the power to open your eyes, to prove to you that you are above this all. But, a person cannot change who they are unless they accept that change needs to be made. As much as I tried to show you that, I feel that your eyes and mind are closed to the very idea. You may not believe that you have a problem, Sherlock, but you do and it has grown progressively worse. You remain locked away in your flat for days on end. You complain that Scotland Yard no longer requires your assistance, but can you blame them?
It hurts to see how far you’ve fallen in just a few short months and as much as I want to help you heal, I am not sure that I can. So, my love, I leave it up to you. Only you can decide when it is time for change. Only you can decide what you want to see when you look back on your life in ten or twenty years. Will your genius have blessed the world, or will it have destroyed you? I fear I do not have the answer to that question, dear Sherlock, though I like to hope, in time, the former will be true.
Yours,
Irene
Irene Adler did not know that once she slid the letter under Sherlock’s door, it would be the final one she ever penned to him. She did not know that this would be that evening when she drew her final breath.
*****
Joan lowered the letter slowly, her heart breaking from the words she had just read. She understood why Sherlock was so hurt, why Irene’s letters had evoked so much emotion in him. It was clear to her that they had meant a great deal to each other and suddenly, she felt like an intruder. She felt as if she had pried into his deepest memories and stolen a glimpse of what Sherlock’s heart had once been.
Joan longed to hear their story, their whole story, but it wasn’t he place to ask. She hoped that as time went on, Sherlock would be able to share that with her, but in the meantime, this letter had no place in being destroyed. She folded it and returned it to its envelope before hiding it away in one of her drawers.
Yawning, she checked the time on her wrist watch: nearly two am. As tired as she was, she couldn’t sleep. Joan left her room and padded down the stairs. She came to an abrupt stop seeing Sherlock still awake, standing there and gazing out the window over New York City. She could tell that he sensed her behind him, but he never turned. He seemed so engrossed in his own thoughts, his shoulders squared. It was as if he was waiting for her to speak, and she would. But after the day they had, the memories she had dug up for him, blindsiding him with Irene’s letters, Joan needed Sherlock to have one final moment to himself. Her shoulders fell as she continued to watch him, sadly, hardly able to imagine what was going on in that wonderful brain of his. She owed him that much.
Characters: Joan Watson, Irene Adler, Sherlock Holmes
Warnings: Mentions of drug abuse/addiction
Summary: Joan Watson hadn’t been entirely truthful with Sherlock Holmes on the night she presented him with the lost letters from ‘Irene Adler’.
Author: marcal_92
Recipient: radialarch - I hope you like it:)
Notes: This fic does have a companion piece, which I will link to after the reveal. It is not necessary to read that piece first. Also, this fic was written before the final few episodes of the season and before we knew about Irene, so it’s a bit AU :)
Joan Watson hadn’t been entirely truthful with Sherlock Holmes on the night she presented him with the lost letters from ‘Irene Adler’. As she stood before him, her hand outstretched, she assured the man that she had not read them. And in part, that was true. Joan had not read a single letter that she handed over to Sherlock. She hadn’t so much as glanced at a word on the pages that he threw into the blender. The words concealed within those envelopes were secret and would remain so.
But what Joan hadn’t told Sherlock, was that a single letter remained. A lone blue envelope with his name scrawled across the front in an elegant script. Joan assumed that it had fallen free from the original collection and rescued itself from the fate of the blender. She thought of tearing it in half, destroying it as Sherlock had destroyed all the others, but as she held the paper in her hand, the curl and tilt of the lettering halted her. This letter was written by a person who Sherlock cared for, who cared for him. There could be insight in Irene’s words, a deeper clue to who Sherlock truly was and what made him this man. She fought the urge to break his confidence, to rifle through his memories. It was clear to Joan that they were painful ones, but why?
Her fingers twitched and her teeth tugged at her bottom lip as Joan argued with herself. She knew the words were private, but part of her desperately needed to understand why they caused Sherlock such agony.
With a quick glance at her closed bedroom door, Joan slipped her fingers into the envelope and removed the still nearly crisp paper from inside. She slowly backed herself against the door to ensure there was no interruption from the detective who, to the best of Joan’s knowledge, was still downstairs. Once she felt sufficiently alone, Joan allowed her eyes to fall to the words on the page.
*****
It seemed as if ages had passed since their first encounter outside the London Opera House, but in truth, it had been months since the evening Irene and Sherlock had become smitten with each other. She had welcomed his invitations to tea and had been flattered when he asked for her aid in solving the cases he picked up from Scotland Yard. It seemed that Sherlock Holmes, being the genius that he was, reveled in the idea of decoding Irene Adler’s mind. She was sharp; she could read him so much better than he knew himself and that fact intrigued him. It was as if Sherlock had never met a mind to rival his own. This did not surprise Irene in the slightest. Sherlock was a brilliant man.
But for Sherlock Holmes, brilliance and genius begot demons.
Irene had begun penning letters to Sherlock weeks earlier. He had fallen deeper into a drug addled state and had basically locked himself away from the outside world. Her constant contact with him had come to an abrupt end and although she worried terribly, there was nothing she could do to help him. She knew that his brain crumbled at the prospect of boredom and he had told Irene himself on many occasions that his drug use was not a problem; it was something he could control. Never had that been further from the truth. Irene could feel him slipping. She could feel him pulling further and further away, drawing into himself and deeper into his addiction.
The letters started off as a way to let him know that she was still there, that she cared for him deeply and that she wanted to help him. Irene wished desperately that he would allow her to do so. As time progressed, the general messages remained the same, but her pleas to him began to diminish. It was abundantly clear that Sherlock did not want help. As much as she cared for him, Irene could not allow herself to watch him spiral into oblivion.
The opera season was coming to a close and Irene was scheduled to perform in the final show. While Sherlock had promised to attend, and attend sober, Irene did not hold out much hope. She wrote him once again, her letter this time, taking painstakingly long to write:
My Dearest Sherlock,
I have lost track of the number of letters which I have slipped under your door. A dozen? Perhaps more? What I do know is that each and every note I send to you says the same thing. You, my love, are a brilliant man. Far more brilliant than anyone I have ever met or am likely to meet again in my lifetime. Yet, your brilliance is shrouded by the poisons you use to litter your mind.
I worry about you constantly. There were some days that I feared I may lose you forever. It is only now that I realize I have already lost you. I lost you a long time ago, Sherlock. The man you were when we first met has disappeared and I am left wondering if he will ever return.
I used to believe that I could be the one to change you. I thought I had the power to open your eyes, to prove to you that you are above this all. But, a person cannot change who they are unless they accept that change needs to be made. As much as I tried to show you that, I feel that your eyes and mind are closed to the very idea. You may not believe that you have a problem, Sherlock, but you do and it has grown progressively worse. You remain locked away in your flat for days on end. You complain that Scotland Yard no longer requires your assistance, but can you blame them?
It hurts to see how far you’ve fallen in just a few short months and as much as I want to help you heal, I am not sure that I can. So, my love, I leave it up to you. Only you can decide when it is time for change. Only you can decide what you want to see when you look back on your life in ten or twenty years. Will your genius have blessed the world, or will it have destroyed you? I fear I do not have the answer to that question, dear Sherlock, though I like to hope, in time, the former will be true.
Yours,
Irene
Irene Adler did not know that once she slid the letter under Sherlock’s door, it would be the final one she ever penned to him. She did not know that this would be that evening when she drew her final breath.
*****
Joan lowered the letter slowly, her heart breaking from the words she had just read. She understood why Sherlock was so hurt, why Irene’s letters had evoked so much emotion in him. It was clear to her that they had meant a great deal to each other and suddenly, she felt like an intruder. She felt as if she had pried into his deepest memories and stolen a glimpse of what Sherlock’s heart had once been.
Joan longed to hear their story, their whole story, but it wasn’t he place to ask. She hoped that as time went on, Sherlock would be able to share that with her, but in the meantime, this letter had no place in being destroyed. She folded it and returned it to its envelope before hiding it away in one of her drawers.
Yawning, she checked the time on her wrist watch: nearly two am. As tired as she was, she couldn’t sleep. Joan left her room and padded down the stairs. She came to an abrupt stop seeing Sherlock still awake, standing there and gazing out the window over New York City. She could tell that he sensed her behind him, but he never turned. He seemed so engrossed in his own thoughts, his shoulders squared. It was as if he was waiting for her to speak, and she would. But after the day they had, the memories she had dug up for him, blindsiding him with Irene’s letters, Joan needed Sherlock to have one final moment to himself. Her shoulders fell as she continued to watch him, sadly, hardly able to imagine what was going on in that wonderful brain of his. She owed him that much.