Author: Eloarei
Series: Sherlock Holmes (movie-verse)
Characters: Holmes, Watson
A/N: I started writing this sometime in mid-January, but got distracted by the HINABN fandom (oops ^^) and never quite finished it until the other day. Ah well, there's really no point to it anyway, just a little Holmes-introspection or somesuch.
Oh, also. Directly inspired by the song "BreakEven" by The Script. You should give it a listen!
Uneven
OoOoOoOoOoO
Those quiet nights after you've given up trying are the worst. It's harder than ever to find something to distract yourself, and even harder to fall asleep. You're past the point of your usual childish teasing, so the violin stays put and the explosions are kept to an absolute minimum, even if they are a part of your work. They can be saved for the daylight hours when people are watching. But that concession makes you think, Funny, only after it's too late do I give into his plea to keep normal hours.
As you make a feeble attempt at slumber, you begin to contemplate this God in which he's always so intent on believing. "Is it your fault, or mine?" you ask quietly, all the while telling yourself how ridiculous you're being. "I know your words well enough. I thought to overcome them. But in his mind you must be greater." Your heart sinks deeper, an impressive feat. In despair you ignore your own nature and begin to beg. "If there is anything within my power to do, I must know of it." No answer comes to you in any form, and you wonder bitterly if perhaps He doesn't speak to sinners like yourself.
The time passes in a silent grey blur, as it's wont to do when he's not around. Eventually you're sitting across him at the breakfast table, dismissing your pain and basking in his presence while he remains oblivious, face hidden behind the morning news. In his normalcy he's free, you realise, and it almost makes you smile because it's what you want for the both of you. But you already know how he'll spend that freedom. It'll be a waste, and meanwhile you'll be wasting your infinite time away in that grey oblivion, because freedom is something you cannot have nor, apparently, something you can share.
The days go on, as days always do, and you try not to feel like every moment with him is a last goodbye to someone whose life is hanging by a thread.
Lonely nights continue to come and his God never answers. You wonder for the millionth time how he could be so patient as to believe indefinitely in some mysterious man who never gives a direct answer. Time is running out and your quiet grey eternity draws ever closer, boasting its victory over you in flower arrangements and moving-boxes.
The next few days he spends preoccupied with a flurry of preparations, and you spend them preoccupied with a feeling of dread. You know it's rude to feel so, when his mere anticipation is palpable, but at this point you can change neither your attitude nor his mind.
In no time, the final night is upon you. "You're useless," you tell God. He doesn't respond to the insult, but you weren't expecting it anyway. He's a bigger man than you, after all, when it comes to grace. You curl up under the thick comforter of your lonely bed and try to force yourself to sleep. Tomorrow's the big day, and though you couldn't care less what most people think of your appearance, you want to look nice for him, to make him smile just this one last time for you.
And then you'll give 'grace' a shot, and take that last smile to your grave.