Watson continued to read the letter once more, his heart sinking further with each word. He heard Mrs Hudson leave to check on the man and he felt himself worry. He felt guilt.
In that room, that stinking, shabby room lay a broken man. A man once so obscure, so renounced in his field that he was called upon from every angle. A man he had lain with and argued with. The very man he had ran away from. The man he have vowed never to hear head nor tail of again. But, this man still had a very vital part of him; his love.
*
Watson crept into Holmes' chamber. The embers of the fire sent an eerie glow against the walls, the carpet was covered in filthy coal stains. Gladstone lay asleep at the foot of the silhouette that could only have been Holmes cocooned in his quilt. For a moment, Watson felt a pang of regret in his stomach, but, it was only for a moment. He rooted around the writing desk, picking up every piece of paper he could find and filling them into the pockets of his dressing gown. Before his departure, he took one more wistful look at the man upon the bed and hoped to God that he was right.
Holmes knew perfectly well that Watson had searched through his papers and yet he had neither the energy nor mind to stop him. All his fight was gone, it had left a long time ago, and he no longer cared what was done with him; he no longer cared about anything. When Gladstone snorted in his ear, he made no movement. It was a scary feeling. The constant ache had subsided to a dull throb and yet all his senses were increased ten fold. To the preceptive Sherlock Holmes even logic was lost.
And now, with nothing to numb his suffering mind, it was all he could do just to breathe.
*
"I have this prevailing feeling of dysania, Watson. Not just now, but always." Holmes whispered, wistfully, " What is the sense in facing another day with out anything to numb my fall?"
It was early the next morning, Watson had brought Holmes his breakfast (Mrs Hudson insisted that he stop ignoring Holmes and actually pay a social visit rather than a medical one) and was now presuming to try and talk to the man. He had spent the majority of his morning reading and re reading the detective's 'suicide' papers and, in truth, felt as if he needed a strong drink.
'Dear John,
I love you. But you will never read this, so, the purpose of this letter is defeated. Along with the other 100 or so.
A very sappy Sherlock Holmes.'
They all followed the same course. All addressed to him (apart from one which was more or less addressed to himself) and all seemingly heartbreaking.
"Surely you, the great Sherlock Holmes, can deduce a reason to get up from your bed. Even if it is not easy, old cock, it is still worth while." Watson was not trained in psychology nor the inner workings of the mind, but it was mandatory, as a doctor, to have some comforting skills. However, he knew that to a suicidal man words meant little.
He sat on the end of the bed, next to Holmes, and watched. The way he held himself had lost all confidence that it once had; the look in his eyes was weary. He started at the tops of his bare feet, his hands hung between his legs and his hands bunched together in a fist. It was so defeated; so unlike him.
"My God man, " Watson sighed, "Where has your life gone? All that spark I once admired, it is no where to be seen."
Holmes bowed his head into his waiting hands and ran his fingers through his curls.
"I have no spark any more, Watson. It left when you did."
Watson fell silent. Was he to feel guilty or angry? Was that a judgement or a matter of misunderstanding?
"I - I left because what you were doing to yourself was hurting me too." Watson spat, "Or was I irrelevant?"
"You hurt me by leaving. I love you. How can you simply throw love away? Disregard it for a second grade emotion?"
"I did love you, Holmes. I loved you until it broke my heart. But , you - you were more interested in your self destruction than you were me. I was often left wondering if it was you or your drug induced high."
"You loved me? It's no longer the case at present?"
"No, Holmes, no. You hurt me too much."
"You can't simply stop loving someone - I should know, I've tried and of all people to fail; I have."
It was true, Watson thought, of all people, Shelock Holmes could not control his own desires. What hope that left for anyone else, he did not know. At one point in his friendship with Sherlock, he would have placed the man as sociopathic, unable to even feel a simple emotion such as glee. Even during their time as a couple, Holmes was blunt and sometimes clueless about what he felt. Of course he told Watson 'I love you' but it was rarely passionate unless he was drunk or high on opium.
Maybe it was part of the reason he left? Maybe he wanted something more and, Sherlock not being the type to provide it, he simply ran?
"Never the less, Holmes, even if I do still love you, I can never come back to you."
"Then why are you here? I don't need your friendship; it's simply too cruel."
"I'm here because you're an idiot. I had my doubts about your 'suicide attempt' and after reading your letters I still doubt. It could simply have been a ploy to get me here, an attempt used to disguise a cry for help."
"Think what you will."
"If I were to pass you a knife-"
"I'd use it. well."
Watson growled in fustration. For several moments he could think of nothing to answer, what does one say to a statement like that? Finally, he whispered the only thing he could.
"Please, don't."
Holmes lay back upon the bed and brought the dog closer to him; Gladstone seemed to be somewhat of a safety blanket.
"You've taken everything else from me -"
"Drugs, Homles! Drugs will most certainly turn you into just another mad man on the streets, begging for money. I don't want to see that befall you."
The man, upon further inspection, was shaking, his hands couldn't stay still.
"I'm aching, Watson." He snapped, "I - I need them back. Please? As a friend - a lover - I'm asking you with all my heart." When he gave Watson those big doe eyes, the doctor's heart melted. But he stood firm to his guns and simply shook his head, "Have it your way."
The detective turned onto his side, so that his back was to Watson, and curled himself into a ball. Watson remained in his chair, watching. The doctor knew that the withdrawl's would be much easier with someone there to ease his pain and, maybe then, Holmes would finally see him as his friend again.
Even if he didn't; Watson could live with that.
It was early the next morning, Watson had brought Holmes his breakfast (Mrs Hudson insisted that he stop ignoring Holmes and actually pay a social visit rather than a medical one) and was now presuming to try and talk to the man. He had spent the majority of his morning reading and re reading the detective's 'suicide' papers and, in truth, felt as if he needed a strong drink.
'Dear John,
I love you. But you will never read this, so, the purpose of this letter is defeated. Along with the other 100 or so.
A very sappy Sherlock Holmes.'
They all followed the same course. All addressed to him (apart from one which was more or less addressed to himself) and all seemingly heartbreaking.
"Surely you, the great Sherlock Holmes, can deduce a reason to get up from your bed. Even if it is not easy, old cock, it is still worth while." Watson was not trained in psychology nor the inner workings of the mind, but it was mandatory, as a doctor, to have some comforting skills. However, he knew that to a suicidal man words meant little.
He sat on the end of the bed, next to Holmes, and watched. The way he held himself had lost all confidence that it once had; the look in his eyes was weary. He started at the tops of his bare feet, his hands hung between his legs and his hands bunched together in a fist. It was so defeated; so unlike him.
"My God man, " Watson sighed, "Where has your life gone? All that spark I once admired, it is no where to be seen."
Holmes bowed his head into his waiting hands and ran his fingers through his curls.
"I have no spark any more, Watson. It left when you did."
Watson fell silent. Was he to feel guilty or angry? Was that a judgement or a matter of misunderstanding?
"I - I left because what you were doing to yourself was hurting me too." Watson spat, "Or was I irrelevant?"
"You hurt me by leaving. I love you. How can you simply throw love away? Disregard it for a second grade emotion?"
"I did love you, Holmes. I loved you until it broke my heart. But , you - you were more interested in your self destruction than you were me. I was often left wondering if it was you or your drug induced high."
"You loved me? It's no longer the case at present?"
"No, Holmes, no. You hurt me too much."
"You can't simply stop loving someone - I should know, I've tried and of all people to fail; I have."
It was true, Watson thought, of all people, Shelock Holmes could not control his own desires. What hope that left for anyone else, he did not know. At one point in his friendship with Sherlock, he would have placed the man as sociopathic, unable to even feel a simple emotion such as glee. Even during their time as a couple, Holmes was blunt and sometimes clueless about what he felt. Of course he told Watson 'I love you' but it was rarely passionate unless he was drunk or high on opium.
Maybe it was part of the reason he left? Maybe he wanted something more and, Sherlock not being the type to provide it, he simply ran?
"Never the less, Holmes, even if I do still love you, I can never come back to you."
"Then why are you here? I don't need your friendship; it's simply too cruel."
"I'm here because you're an idiot. I had my doubts about your 'suicide attempt' and after reading your letters I still doubt. It could simply have been a ploy to get me here, an attempt used to disguise a cry for help."
"Think what you will."
"If I were to pass you a knife-"
"I'd use it. well."
Watson growled in fustration. For several moments he could think of nothing to answer, what does one say to a statement like that? Finally, he whispered the only thing he could.
"Please, don't."
Holmes lay back upon the bed and brought the dog closer to him; Gladstone seemed to be somewhat of a safety blanket.
"You've taken everything else from me -"
"Drugs, Homles! Drugs will most certainly turn you into just another mad man on the streets, begging for money. I don't want to see that befall you."
The man, upon further inspection, was shaking, his hands couldn't stay still.
"I'm aching, Watson." He snapped, "I - I need them back. Please? As a friend - a lover - I'm asking you with all my heart." When he gave Watson those big doe eyes, the doctor's heart melted. But he stood firm to his guns and simply shook his head, "Have it your way."
The detective turned onto his side, so that his back was to Watson, and curled himself into a ball. Watson remained in his chair, watching. The doctor knew that the withdrawl's would be much easier with someone there to ease his pain and, maybe then, Holmes would finally see him as his friend again.
Even if he didn't; Watson could live with that.
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