A/N: Thank you for coauthoring, heartshungbehind; couldn't have gotten through this without you. I am warning you all right now, that this may, in fact, be as painful to read as "Alone on the Water". It may not. Either way, this story was written with tears in my eyes for most everything. I can't say the same for Emma (you don't have a soul, mister :P). I really hope you all enjoy this to the extent of which it can be. Please review.
Warnings prior: Character suicide, death, drug use, and mild language. Slash.
Disclaimer: All rights to their respectful authors, Guy Ritchie and the amazing Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
The door to Cavendish Place closed silently, and Watson emerging onto the slick London streets. He'd left a letter for Mary; an emotional, possibly even heart-wrenching expression of the love and friendship he held for her, as well as an apology. He explained, very vaguely, why he had to leave so early, why he couldn't let her see him off before he went to war. John loved Ms. Morstan so, but his heart was for another. Another who had died so, so many months ago. Nearly eight months, it had been. Eight months since John had been sleuthing with him. Eight months since he had danced with the great detective, since he had saved his life; since he had…lived.
Watson grimaced. In truth, he hadn't lived since his friend had passed. He'd locked himself away to his office for hours on end, writing and writing and writing. That damn manuscript was near finished because of it. Many a night he'd sat in bed with Mary, one hand holding page after page of stories of the adventures of the two of them, another tracing his wife's delicate hair line. John had put so many tears into it. He'd cried at nearly every memory, whether happy, anger-inducing – mind you, most of them were - or sad. It was rather painful to relive the better half of his life with only the memory of his friend, but for some reason John did it. He enjoyed the emotional strain; or was it that he enjoyed remembering him, perhaps?
No matter, John shook his head, clearing room in his mind for what he had stepped out to do in the first place. He wouldn't have wanted to leave in any other fashion, he decided. The doctor had left early, gracing a still-sleeping London with his less than light footfalls, as he hobbled to Baker Street, perhaps for the final time. John planned to arrive upon the stoop of the flat, grace the long-since abandoned rooms with his presence one more time and maybe make a final goodbye, then he would leave for Berlin. He wanted to experience Baker Street once more. He wanted to rest his eyes upon his gaudy bedroom that had served him for so many years, smell the sick perfumes of Holmes' tobacco, the faint hint of gunpowder that always lingered in the walls. Maybe Watson wanted to visit one last time to try to permanently ingrain Holmes in his memory, but some part of him secretly still hoped that his friend was alive; that he'd somehow survived the fall and was sitting there, puffing his pipe and nonchalantly flipping through the latest newspaper in his study.
John sighed heavily as he stood alone at the stoop of 221B Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson was likely to be asleep at this hour, causing him to quietly enter and tread lightly on the stairway. Still, the ever observant landlady emerged from her chambers and called out in a harsh whisper, "John? John, is that you?"
Watson bit his lip, knowing Mrs. Hudson would argue that it would be unhealthy to return to the flat he and Holmes once occupied. "I'm simply making a house call, my dear; nothing more."
"I am sorry to say that I doubt that," she grumbled. It was evident by her stern glare that she did not approve, but Mrs. Hudson nonetheless followed the doctor to the empty living space and pulled out a small silver key. "I had a locksmith come in and change the locks after Sherlock's passing," she said delicately. "I cleaned it up a bit as well, but I couldn't seem to get out the smell of-"
"Tobacco? Alcohol? A man who hasn't bothered to bathe?" John quickly supplied, laughing sadly to himself.
Mrs. Hudson's knit brow was barely visible in the poor lighting. "Yes, actually. I clean the place and all seems fine, yet I come back, and it smells as though a cigar has just been put out. The scent is as strong as ever! A peculiar sort of thing, really."
"Perhaps it never truly left."
Mrs. Hudson looked up at John's expression of longing and felt pity well within her chest. "It does not do one well to dwell on the past, Dr. Watson." Her words spoke volumes, yet it was her meaningful stare that made Watson almost regret returning. Almost. He gestured toward the door, and the landlady tutted, letting him in with a final sigh. "Lock the door behind you, then," she said, dropping the key into her robe and returning to her quarters. Watson took in a deep breath and pushed the door open tentatively with the end of his cane.
"Holmes?" He felt foolish for even thinking his dear friend would be there, but he needed to be certain. "Holmes, it's me. Please say something." John waited in the doorway, but neither man nor apparition responded to his hopeful calls. And there he stood, as if preparing himself for some sort of battle, imminent within himself.
Making a decision, John inched a reluctant foot through the threshold to his friend's bedroom, taking in the sight of the undisturbed clutter. Everything was as he remembered it before leaving. Holmes' Stradivarius lay on a wooden chair, turned out from where it was supposed to be. His bed sheets were unmade. Funny, how Mrs. Hudson had warned that she'd tidied. No matter. John grimaced, shuffling about through stacks of papers, coming across photographs and writings of his dear friend's. Many were of criminals, descriptions laden in blotched scrawl across ruffled parchment. The occasional sheet music would come along, however. John deeply admired Holmes' ingenious compositions on the rare occasions when he would listen to them. Peculiar melodies would float through the halls of 221B, often to his utter dismay as they both worked away at a case.
Watson sighed, "I suppose that's how you focused though, old boy."
He looked up from the papers suddenly, deciding to admire the numerous tapestries and paintings on the walls of Holmes' bed chamber instead. He limped over to a particular weaving, Holmes' family crest, running his practiced hand along the intricate strings.
"Is this how it's going to be, then?" he asked suddenly, angry. Watson bit his lip, trying to suppress the oncoming emotion. He lost, inevitably, folding into himself on Holmes' bed.
"Damn it, Sherlock. I loved you. Why did you have to leave like you did?" Watson choked this out through violent sobs, which he tried so hard to muffle with the comforter.
A gasp for air, and John tried again, "I wanted to tell you. I wanted for everything to be okay. All I wanted was to hold you, take your hand in mine, and run. We would have been unstoppable, Holmes; unstoppable. Do you hear me, you selfish bastard? Do you?" Watson's fist slammed against the headboard. He cried out in sudden agony, gripping the bed sheets with all he had. Pain was overwhelming his body; violent sobs were heaved. Watson couldn't stop himself. Why in God's name had he held this for so long? Why?
Some minutes later, John solemnly stood, gathered his bowler, which had fallen in his fit, and cane, and silently walked out the door to Holmes' room. He stopped at the threshold, however.
"The least I can do to heal us is say goodbye, Sherlock. Spare me a place next to you." And with that, the good doctor was gone from 221B. Holmes emerged from under his bed, dust atop his unkempt hair. He was shaking, tears carving tracks into his stubble. It is too late. Holmes felt the all too familiar wound in his chest, not one of body but of mind and soul. He quickly yanked at the knob of his bedside drawer and took out his pipe. A mixture of drugs was dropped within and lit; not enough to numb him entirely, but enough to make the wound less unbearable.
Holmes often ventured to his grave site, mostly on days when his mind refused to clear. He was trapped in his flat day in and day out, a prisoner of his own doing; had he returned to the realm of the living sooner, he might have once again gone sleuthing with the good doctor at his side. Yet after Watson's abrupt and painful visit, one that was confusing and heart-wrenching even for the detective, Sherlock had seen no point in living anymore. Many of his days were spent with the morning post, swiped from a neighboring flat just to give him something to think about. The lack of information, it seemed, was more detrimental to his mind than an excess of it.
Holmes' worn shoes kicked up dust as he walked. He could recall his grave in perfect detail: a grey headstone, simple as opposed to the manner that many families use to overcompensate for their loved ones past. Inscribed into the marble were the words Here lies Sherlock Holmes – brother, friend, forever a man of mystery. He actually found it to be quite a clique and would have much preferred it had John listened to him when he discussed what his epitome should read long ago. Mycroft funded the entire affair of his funeral, which Holmes attended from afar. Mycroft and Lestrade were there, as was that wretched Nanny. John attended as well.
Sherlock followed the path to his grave, worn into the dirt by his own feet. Once he reached the tombstone, Holmes continued his common ritual of sitting atop the marble and observing those around him. A groundskeeper once scolded him for disrespecting the dead by doing so, which only reinforced Holmes' belief that he was safe to be out and about in London; the whole of the city's population either did not recognize him or did not care. He pulled out his pipe, a habit that had become worse and did not show signs of improving as of late. He puffed at it, letting the soothing inhalations wash over his mind. His muscles released their withheld tension, and he felt his world shift ever so slightly.
Though the plots surrounding the grave rarely changed, today Holmes was met with a peculiar sight. Not far from where he sat, a familiar cane leaned against a small headstone. The dirt above it was packed not a month ago, and Holmes had an aching feeling in his chest as he looked upon it. His eyes widened in fear.
"No." Sherlock whispered, eyes fixated on the grey marble. He ran to it and fell to his knees in front of the stone. Here lies Dr. John Hamish Watson, it read. Holmes sucked in a labored breath, his hand acting on its own accord to reach out for the idle cane. He pulled it to his chest, pressing his forehead into its' top, and trying desperately to hold back the stinging tears that hung in anticipation from his eyelids. Holmes buried his face to muffle his screams, succumbing to a pain that not even his cocaine could soothe.
"NO!" He shouted, knuckles whitening with his intensified grip his friend's support. His knees buckled, and he landed with a soft thump in the dirt. The cane dropped to the ground, Holmes finally succumbed to his pain, and began to cry. Watson was gone. He hadn't sent him the letter that sat in his pocket now, as he'd meant to do today. He hadn't gotten a chance to say goodbye, even; he didn't get the chance to say 'I love you.' Holmes, some minutes later, after his sobs had quieted some, reached for the crumpled note that lay in his trench coat pocket, bypassing a vial that sat heavily against his breast.
He inhaled deeply, to at least compose himself for what he was about to do. He would read the letter, confess it all to Watson's tiny grave. And then, by some imaginary beat, Holmes would take up the vial, drink its contents, and, at last, the great detective would fall. There was to be no dissuading, for there was no use in living any longer. Holmes had no friends here. There was nothing for him to do any more, no cases to solve, no love to give, no loyalty to pursue. And Watson was waiting for him, wherever he was. He knew it, could feel it. Taking another breath, Holmes promptly accepted his fate, beginning to read his letter.
John-
My greatest hope in life, at least in the life that I secretly lead, is that you will one day forgive me for my actions. My dear friend, I am alive. I have been alive for so long, waiting for the right moment to tell you. I realize now that I should have told you the moment I recovered from my fall, yet I did not do so. I knew you would forget me one day, or so I hoped, and you and your Mary would be able to live on without me. I apologize for that, Watson. I know now that was not solely my choice to make.
When you returned to our flat for the last time, I was there. I heard every word, John, and my only wish is that I had cried out to you when the opportunity presented itself as it had that day. It truly broke m y heart to see you, the courageous John Watson, broken and defeated thanks to my actions. I respect and adore you to no end and need for you to know that your feelings are reciprocated. They always have been, John; I don't know how in the world you could ever think differently. Perhaps if you had never left my side – but no. I could never blame you for this. It is my fault and my fault alone that we could never be.
Lastly, John, I must thank you. I thank you for giving me the most that any man could ever ask of another. I have not felt whole in some time, and I believe to my very core that it is because we have not been together, side by side as we had been for many years. Those years are the ones I cherish, Watson, and you must believe me when I tell you that the future could never compare to our past, our history. Never have I loved another as I love you. I will not speak of my love in grandeur; for I firmly believe what we had was simple and imperfect. I never wanted us to be perfect, John; I just wanted us to be happy. I hope you agree that we were.
I love you, John Watson. Life could never be as sweet without you, and so I shall wait for you in a better place as you believed for so many months that I already was.
-Sherlock
Sherlock chuckled darkly at the irony of his letter. It seems that John, his brave hero, would need not wait for long at all. He felt for the vial in his pocket, and daintily plucked it from the depths of the fabric. The green liquid inside glinted with amber flares as Holmes held it to the sunlight. Arsenic, in all of its glory, sat in his palm, waiting for its victim to ingest the lovely poison. The cork cap unscrewed, Holmes sucked in a last breath, and swigged the venom. His eyes glued to a cloud directly above Watson's plot, he sat in patience for the arsenic to take effect. It shouldn't be long now, he thought idly, staring into the cloudy sky as he waited. He wondered whether or not death would be easy; dying seemed like the easier option now, for Holmes no longer had the will to the days go by while he hid from sight.
Suddenly, his throat closed. Holmes shut his eyes, trying to scream out for help. His mouth foamed in futile attempts at uttering any sort of noise, but to no avail. God, it burned. It felt as though Satan had tied his flaming noose around the detective's neck, and he'd just been hung. Slowly, Holmes' desperate clawing at his neck dwindled, and his body went limp. London's greatest detective was dead then, slumped back against his companion's headstone, a love letter clutched in his hand.