Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes is not mine. At all. please don't sue me.
A/N: Okay, so this was inspired by a prompt from the Sherlock Holmes kinkmeme. The prompt was something along the lines of the three years that Holmes was gone how does Watson deal with that and how does he deal with what happened with his wife, something, something, something, with all that happens he breaks down from this. However, Holmes is there in disguise watching how Watson reacts to all of this, and although he want's to help he cannot due to the reason that he is indisposed. Yea.
Now I haven't read all of the Sherlock Holmes stories but I know that there is some speculation on what exactly happened to Watson's wife. I think some people believe she left him and I think the OP thought that's what happened as well but I think that she died. Yup. Dead. Now don't get me wrong I like Mary, I just think she died.
Oh, and I have no beta, this was just me proof reading as much as I could, so if there are any errors you find please tell me. NOW, ON TO THE STORY!
SJSJSJSJSJ
Watson can't believe he's gone, really gone, and God, it just hurts so much more than he possibly thought it could. He goes back home, on a train and boat ride that seems infinitely longer than it did coming up; alone - to the only person he has now . . .
Walking up the stairs to his house Watson slows and stares up at the lone lantern that shines over the steps, it's cold yellow light illuminates the steps and everything in a three meter radius, but for some reason it seems to pass right over him. With a deep breath that seems to get caught in his throat , it's closing, he thinks irritated, from the inevitable emotion that's rising in him, taking another deep breath slower this time he walks into his house.
Mary's awake and waiting for him eager for the tail that she knows he has to tell, but her beatific smile immediately wanes and falls at the sight of him. He didn't know what she saw, he thought he had the emotions whirring inside of him wiped away from his face. Although apparently not because as soon as he sits across from her, back straight, hands resting on his knees, and eyes gazing into hers she's there, sitting beside him, arm wrapped around his shoulders the other holding one of his hands firmly. Asking him what happened with a quite worried, concerned voice.
And for a time he sits, staring at the carpet. She waits, knowing that whatever has happened it's what he needs. He doesn't want to talk about it, doesn't want to think about it, he hasn't. not the entire time that he was on the train coming back home, alone. He didn't sleep, he'd known exactly what he would dream about and he's avoided it. And suddenly he realizes exactly how tired he is. . .but. He's stared at everything and nothing and to the best of his abilities kept his mind blank. He can't think about it, has no desire to, he knows if he does that it will all become real. And he won't be able to pretend that something else happened, that everything turned out alright, like it always does. Like in stories, like in his stories. How could something else have possibly happened? How?
But now, it all comes back and it's all coming out. Every detail that he's pushed away and avoided is coming , tumbling, rushing out of his mouth. Everything that happened, everything that he thought had happened, and everything that he realized. And - his voice gives out because that memory is playing through his mind. Searing there to the back of his eyelids and now he knows that he will never be able to forget that memory or avoid it.
He folds into Mary and she wraps her arms around him and he cries. There is no sound, just the racks of his shoulders, his slightly increased breathing and the spot on her shoulder that grows increasingly damp.
SHSHSHSH
The funeral isn't a big thing, there are few people, for Holmes didn't know many as anything more than acquaintances. His family is there, Mary's on his right arm and Mrs. Hudson his left, some of Scotland yard come to pay their respects, but other than that - that's it.
The weather annoyingly is actually quite wonderful, and it's so rare that they get day's like this here. Bright, beautiful with cumulus clouds rolling lazily across the sky, the air is crisp and fresh , the sun warm, and it all does nothing but make him feel worse. For all the times that he had huffed or sighed or complained about the dreary weather that London always receives now all he wants is that weather. The rain and fog and pale dead clouds that stretch into forever. There's something he realizes just altogether satisfying about the weather mirroring ones own mood, especially when one feels the way he does.
Slowly those who gathered walk away, move on. One by one. Some time later he looks up to see Holmes' family moving, walking away. They pass him and they talk and then they move on. And he turns back to the headstone. And then with a hug and a few words Mrs. Hudson moves on. Later, Mary tells him that she will be waiting at home for him and she too - moves on.
He stands there and just stares at the stone, ironically it looks to be the same colour as his eyes, or, has he already forgotten what colour his friends eyes were? No. they were always changing with his mood, always changing. But. . .he'd rather not put a name to what colour the stone looks like.
Suddenly the stone in front of him blurs and for a moment he can't understand why, he closes his eyes for a few seconds and tilts his head up. When he opens them he finds that the stone is closer than it was, he looks down and sees that without his knowledge he has fallen to his knees. He ignores this and looks back to the stone, and he sits there thinking, staring at words that slowly fade out of focus again, he puts a hand over his eyes.
"Damn it." the two words are barely a whisper.
He stays there, he doesn't even know how much longer, but when he looks up from the head stone the sun is almost set. Breathing a sigh he begins to stand but brushes his hands over the words on the headstone once more before standing fully. Head down, hands stuffed in his pockets he turns resolutely around and walks away toward the entrance of the cemetery, straining not to turn around once more to look at the head stone. Upon walking out he's startled to see Mary leaning up against the gate obviously waiting patiently for him.
At the sight of Watson she gives him a small smile and he returns it but it doesn't reach his eyes. She takes one of his arms and drapes it over her shoulders and she slides one of hers around his waist and slowly they walk home.
JWJWJWJW
Watson's body gives a great jolt and his eyes snap open, his mouth is stretched wide and a silent scream dies upon his lips. Breath ragged he desperately tries to regulate it and turns slowly to see if he's woken Mary. He hasn't and he takes a breath at that. So many nights he's woken her up, kept her as sleepless almost as much as he. Once his breathing is normal and his heart is calm he gets up. Slowly, slowly he makes his way out of bed. He needs. . .to walk, to drink, anything, just move. He walks into the kitchen and deliberating on drinking at this hour gulps down water. He looks out the window, the first slivers of light are lighting the horizon and he thinks that it's late enough that he can simply stay up.
He notices that he hasn't been getting much sleep lately, and he notices that it's getting worse. But God, those dreams. They slowly and meticulously chip away at him and really if this is the way to avoid those dreams then it isn't that bad. No, it isn't that bad at all. He looks down to the cup in his hand and to the water sloshing and shaking in it where it falls out and splashes onto the floor. He sits the cup down roughly where more water spills onto the counter.
". . . Damn cup." the two words are barely a whisper. And he clenches trembling hands into tight fists.
SJSJSJSJ
He notices that it has gotten much harder to eat lately, and he notices that it is getting worse. Now, by no means is he refusing to eat, he hasn't simply forgotten his hunger, and it hasn't simply vanished. He is hungry, good Lord he is hungry. His stomach growls and aches with his desire for food, to taste and to be full, but at the same time his stomach churns and turns at the thought of it.
Sitting at the table with Mary and eating breakfast should, he thinks, be more awkward than it is. See the glances and stares she throws his way, coaxing and urging him to eat? Yes, he see's them too. And . . . God, doesn't this remind him exactly of . . . stop. It isn't awkward though, he looks up just as she looks away, he is trying though. So hard.
He doesn't want to bother her, she has her own problems. It's been month's! what's wrong with him? It didn't take him this long to come back to himself after that bloody war and . . . India. But this . . . He sighs softly and picks up his fork preparing to do battle with those bastards on his plate masquerading themselves as delicious pieces of food.
Damn It All To Hell - he grips his fork stabs it into his eggs and into his bacon and places it into his mouth, he chews and chews and chews . . . and swallows; or attempts to - if it's not one of the hardest things to do! It's as if his body is trying to kill him, trying to; actually trying. His throat is so tight, and yes as of late it's always tight but not like this, and it's only like this when he tries to eat. Trying to swallow around the tiniest bit of food hurts, his eyes water, and it feels as if he's going to choke. he coughs lightly and lays his fork down.
Sighing softly Mary finishes her plate and gets up to put it away. She comes back and before walking by him leans down gives him a firm but chaste kiss on the lips before smiling and looking him dead in the eyes.
"Eat something for me?" the corner of his lips quirk up and he nods his head. "Promise me." she say quieter and at that a small smile settles over his mouth.
"I promise." smiling lightly she kisses him on the cheek before standing up and leaving.
"Have a good day!" she calls and then there is the click of the door.
He sits there a moment after hearing the door shut and then looks down to his food. Mouth pressing to a thin line he picks up his fork again, he promised. So he must, even if it will all just . . .
A hand lays it's self lightly on his throat as he swallows, swallows and swallows. He forces the rest of his food down, he has eaten. And just as he begins to smile feeling good about himself he can feel it beginning to come back up. He gulps in air and continues to swallow as his hand reaches for his glass of water to help swallow the food back down but as soon as the thought enters his mind he is racing towards the bathroom and his breakfast is coming back up - into the toilet bowl.
Finished, finally after several bouts of dry heaving he leans up against the wall, and the back of his hand wipes across his mouth.
"Maybe I should stick to liquids" he thinks absentmindedly. What? Cider? Apple sauce? baby food? his hand presses to his forehead as he barely whispers.
". . .Damn it."
TBC
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IMO, I believe Watson suffered A LOT. I mean his best friend just died, his wife is going to die and I put him through a bunch more, so of course he's going to break down. Now I love Watson, he's my favorite character, but I'm one of those people who love to see their favorite characters suffer, and boy does he suffer in this fic.
