Holmes Grieves
[Author's Note:]My apologies for the following gloomy piece. It is a snippet that I found from the time of writing "One Wish", a "Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century" piece. Apart from a brief mention of Holmes' present and new friends (namely Beth Lestrade and Watson the Robot), there is not much indication of the universe in which I set the following, however, as Holmes spends most of this narrative looking back.
There is a pain in my chest, squeezing at my heart, making it difficult for me to breathe. I know it now without a doubt - it is possible to die of a broken heart as that is what is happening to me now. I know not for how long it will take such a thing to overcome a young, healthy body but I know that it will come, for it was to just that that I succumbed at the end of my previous life, having lost Watson.
All that I wish to do is to remain beside the warming fire and to drink tea, because I am so very cold and weary. Cases mean nothing - life is empty without my Boswell and I cannot last long without him beside me. I know not how to tell Beth Lestrade, for I know that such knowledge will hurt her greatly and she has done much to make me comfortable in my 22nd Century existence. Sadly, an existence is all that this is - I do not feel truly alive without my dear Watson beside me and I know that I never shall.
Missing my friend of old is incredibly painful - more so than any physical injury that I have ever endured. I know it well, having endured it from the time of my companion's death to the moment of my own. I do not remember much, aside from the grief, for I had nobody left behind to put up any appearances for and I do not believe that I lingered for long. I could have been gone within a week of Watson's funeral or it could have been months, but I was certainly gone within less than a year.
I recall entering my friend's sickroom, taking his cold hand in mine in a desperate grip - as if I believed that my touch could bring his soul back from the very brink and renew his strength. If only that were possible.
For the duration of the journey from Sussex to London, I had carefully planned and rehearsed just what I would say to my dear friend. I had many regrets and so many apologies to make - I had to tell him how I truly felt while the opportunity still remained. My script fell to pieces, my resolve disintegrating with it, when I beheld my brave companion of old. He was pale, exhausted and clearly in no small amount of pain. And so I held his hand while the fellow apologised for the anguish that his sending for me at such a moment was causing to me and we both wept - he for me and I for the wasted time that I should have spent with him and had not. We should have had more time.
The kind-hearted fellow had then requested that I play for him - I suspect, in hindsight, that it was so that I would not have to watch or hear him leave. When the piece reached its conclusion, it was as if the fellow had fallen asleep, so peaceful and contented he looked. As I took his unresisting hand in mine I realised that I had never once apologised for my treatment of him or for those deplorably wasted years following my meeting with Moriarty at the falls of Reichenbach. There was so much that I had always meant to say and I would never utter a word. My world fell apart at that precise moment and I know not exactly what I thought or did next.
My next memory is distant and confused. I was in a bland little hotel room near a railway line, clearly having somehow had the presence of mind to take myself away and hire a room before breaking down completely. I ensured that the door was locked, drew the curtains and then curled myself tightly upon my bed, no longer able to control my building, debilitating emotions. I know not for how long I wept or whether I remained silent, as I always had, or whether my anguish escaped me in cries, but when the tears finally ran dry I was exhausted and feeling empty and lost.
By the time I attended Watson's funeral, I had no tears left to shed. I merely felt cold, empty and my chest ached as if my heart had been ripped from it whenever the fellow's name was mentioned.
I recall choosing the tombstone to match that of his dear wife, beside whom he was buried, and I did visit them once. I left them some flowers, but said nothing - I had felt foolish and sentimental just for choosing to go and I had left soon after. I recall boarding the train for Sussex and staring out at the rain as it drummed at the window beside me with the same, unbearable pain squeezing at my heart and then nothing more. I know not whether these were truly my last moments or if all that occurred thereafter was not worth documenting.
And what now? Well, this time, I am younger and I have friends - good friends - who worry about me when I am not myself. I am presented with cases by Lestrade, encouraged and comforted by 'Watson' the compudroid and frequently visited by my Irregulars. However, I can feel myself slowly sinking into depression, with each new bout that little darker and deeper than before; each new attack proving harder to escape from than the last. My first Christmas - my biographer's favourite time of the year - is looming and I have little doubt that I shall be expected to be chipper and enjoy myself with Lestrade, the robot and my Irregulars while all I truly wish to do is to shut myself away and grieve.
No, I cannot possibly continue as I am - I feel I shall go mad if I should have to try! Some individuals are simply not meant to be separated, it would seem, for I do believe that I have a part of me missing and not a separate human being absent from my life. How can I possibly continue as I am?
There is a pain in my chest, squeezing at my heart, making it difficult for me to breathe. I know it now without a doubt - it is possible to die of a broken heart as that is what is happening to me now. I know not for how long it will take such a thing to overcome a young, healthy body but I know that it will come, for it was to just that that I succumbed at the end of my previous life, having lost Watson.
All that I wish to do is to remain beside the warming fire and to drink tea, because I am so very cold and weary. Cases mean nothing - life is empty without my Boswell and I cannot last long without him beside me. I know not how to tell Beth Lestrade, for I know that such knowledge will hurt her greatly and she has done much to make me comfortable in my 22nd Century existence. Sadly, an existence is all that this is - I do not feel truly alive without my dear Watson beside me and I know that I never shall.
Missing my friend of old is incredibly painful - more so than any physical injury that I have ever endured. I know it well, having endured it from the time of my companion's death to the moment of my own. I do not remember much, aside from the grief, for I had nobody left behind to put up any appearances for and I do not believe that I lingered for long. I could have been gone within a week of Watson's funeral or it could have been months, but I was certainly gone within less than a year.
I recall entering my friend's sickroom, taking his cold hand in mine in a desperate grip - as if I believed that my touch could bring his soul back from the very brink and renew his strength. If only that were possible.
For the duration of the journey from Sussex to London, I had carefully planned and rehearsed just what I would say to my dear friend. I had many regrets and so many apologies to make - I had to tell him how I truly felt while the opportunity still remained. My script fell to pieces, my resolve disintegrating with it, when I beheld my brave companion of old. He was pale, exhausted and clearly in no small amount of pain. And so I held his hand while the fellow apologised for the anguish that his sending for me at such a moment was causing to me and we both wept - he for me and I for the wasted time that I should have spent with him and had not. We should have had more time.
The kind-hearted fellow had then requested that I play for him - I suspect, in hindsight, that it was so that I would not have to watch or hear him leave. When the piece reached its conclusion, it was as if the fellow had fallen asleep, so peaceful and contented he looked. As I took his unresisting hand in mine I realised that I had never once apologised for my treatment of him or for those deplorably wasted years following my meeting with Moriarty at the falls of Reichenbach. There was so much that I had always meant to say and I would never utter a word. My world fell apart at that precise moment and I know not exactly what I thought or did next.
My next memory is distant and confused. I was in a bland little hotel room near a railway line, clearly having somehow had the presence of mind to take myself away and hire a room before breaking down completely. I ensured that the door was locked, drew the curtains and then curled myself tightly upon my bed, no longer able to control my building, debilitating emotions. I know not for how long I wept or whether I remained silent, as I always had, or whether my anguish escaped me in cries, but when the tears finally ran dry I was exhausted and feeling empty and lost.
By the time I attended Watson's funeral, I had no tears left to shed. I merely felt cold, empty and my chest ached as if my heart had been ripped from it whenever the fellow's name was mentioned.
I recall choosing the tombstone to match that of his dear wife, beside whom he was buried, and I did visit them once. I left them some flowers, but said nothing - I had felt foolish and sentimental just for choosing to go and I had left soon after. I recall boarding the train for Sussex and staring out at the rain as it drummed at the window beside me with the same, unbearable pain squeezing at my heart and then nothing more. I know not whether these were truly my last moments or if all that occurred thereafter was not worth documenting.
And what now? Well, this time, I am younger and I have friends - good friends - who worry about me when I am not myself. I am presented with cases by Lestrade, encouraged and comforted by 'Watson' the compudroid and frequently visited by my Irregulars. However, I can feel myself slowly sinking into depression, with each new bout that little darker and deeper than before; each new attack proving harder to escape from than the last. My first Christmas - my biographer's favourite time of the year - is looming and I have little doubt that I shall be expected to be chipper and enjoy myself with Lestrade, the robot and my Irregulars while all I truly wish to do is to shut myself away and grieve.
No, I cannot possibly continue as I am - I feel I shall go mad if I should have to try! Some individuals are simply not meant to be separated, it would seem, for I do believe that I have a part of me missing and not a separate human being absent from my life. How can I possibly continue as I am?