Warnings: Alternate Universe, Character Death, some Gore.
This is my entry for Challenge 005 on the Watson's Woes community. The theme for the challenge was to write an Alternate Universe story where Mary Watson dies a some point other than during the Hiatus. I originally intended to write it in a more normal Holmes-voice, but my poetic heart rebelled and willed it otherwise. I never thought I'd use this kind of style in a Sherlock Holmes fanfic, but now I have, and I'm more than a little proud of it. But the effort taxed my soul terribly, I will have you know, simply with all the anguish I had to go through to put myself in-character and experience the emotion. So please, read and review. :)
At times I am tempted to fancy myself more than a man, out of pride in the fact that I am completely ruled by my mind. I am a mind – my heart is mere appendage, an organ given by a creator that did not understand that it is not my role to feel.
And yet, the heart has a potency that breaks into my mind when I least expect it, when I least wish it. It has a strength that a mind such as mine cannot fathom, even at the best of times – though it has the appearance of being tamed, yet at strange moments it will become wild once again, resisting any attempts at logic. At those times, I frighten even myself.
So see the paradox, that so often the thing I fear is the very fear that springs up out of that wild heart, the fear that appears with no explanation and shatters an ordinary moment. Why fear? I am a man with nerves of steel. I have heard hundreds, perhaps thousands, of screams in my lifetime. And yet I still cannot understand why that one cry would, for a moment, wake the wild heart sleeping in my chest, instilling it with a depth of fear that I had never known before.
The closest I can come to an explanation is this: the voice that uttered the cry was the voice that had the strongest hold possible over the soul of my friend Watson – the bond of deep, passionate love, a thing that the majority of my mind reviles as nonsense. That voice had grown roots into his heart, so that when the flower was tugged, his whole heart jerked forward. Could it be that the fear I felt was merely a reflection of his greater terror, that for a moment my spirit understood his spirit and the thing that the scream set into motion, grasping in one transcendent vision the pain that was to come?
Immediately on the heels of the scream came another call that roused the lion within him, the raging fury that hid within the man I called Watson.
Daddy.
I don't think I would have dared to call him Watson at that moment. He deserved another name, a greater name, for at that moment, as he sprang from the table with terror and passion and vengeance all mingled together in his face, he was more than a man.
He shot from the room and out of the house by the nearest door, conscious of nothing but those two screams, now dissolving into numerous shorter, more anguished cries.
A gunshot.
No, please, we are coming. Stop, for his sake. Let time cease. Let this be a nightmare – my nightmare, not his.
The garden, at last, was ours. My mind saw the scene in pieces, taking each fragment and running away with it, deducing and surmising as it was wont to do. But my heart, in an instant, saw the scene as a whole, and for a moment time did stop, at least for me.
Mary Watson, lying on the ground, a hole in that place between her chest and shoulder. Bleeding. A strange man, dirty, hunched like an ape, standing over her. That golden-haired child struggling and kicking in the grasp of one filthy arm.
And as I watched, the other arm raised, gun in hand. The nose of the gun met the child's forehead. The gun went off.
Now instead of the two screams, there was only one – a man's scream, filled with every dark and terrible emotion, wrapped and twisted around themselves so many times that they could no longer be called separate entities. Despair, horror, rage, unspeakable sorrow – no, they were one.
He would have tried to kill the man with his bare hands in his vengeance, and would have died because of it. It was for that reason I pulled my revolver from my pocket and shot the stranger through the brain. He fell to the ground almost noiselessly, the child slipping from his dead arm and tumbling into a heap next to his body.
Mary was still alive, but struggling to breathe in vain. Watson and I were at her side almost in the same instant – he gently lifting her onto his lap and clutching the hand that sought his own, bending over her so that their faces were only a few inches apart.
"Patience?" she gasped, barely audible. "John, where is Patience?"
Watson blinked very, very slowly. "In a better place... now," he replied. His voice was an unearthly calm, to the degree that the calmness itself sounded like panic. I knew that voice. It was the voice of a man deceiving himself, a man who would fly into a thousand pieces at the nearest opportunity. She knew it as well – I could tell from the look on her face.
"Kiss me, John."
He did. My mind told me not to watch the nonsense, but my mind had let go it's grip some time ago, and something else compelled me to look, telling me that I needed to see and understand. I don't know why I did, because watching wounded me in a subtle way that I cannot pinpoint – a thing that vexes me to no end, especially on late nights when my unceasing mind has nothing else to think about.
But, on reflection, I think that last kiss was what saved him. Without it, the straightjacket of calm would have driven him mad. Only a few of us can wear that mask successfully, and he is not one of us. The kiss dashed the mask from the hand that was still attempting to apply it to his face, turning him back into what he was – a man. Their lips parted, and his physician's hands were shaking.
"I love you," she whispered, an aching smile on her face.
His tears slid off the end of his nose and fell onto her cheek.
I turned away impulsively, my restless and irritated mind commanding my body to do something – anything – except standing there, watching a tragedy as it transpired. I stormed over to where the murderer lay sprawled in the dirt, the child's golden curls still draped across his forearm. I bent over him, grasping his face to try to identify him, and then cursed.
It was so meaningless. This man was nothing more than a madman that had escaped from his asylum a few days ago, a dangerous one that the police had worried themselves to death searching for. What law of fate dictated that he should obtain a gun and come here of all places to wreak his insanity on two random, innocent people? This was foolishness, devoid of all rhyme or reason, a conundrum that logic could never hope to solve. It haunted me. My mind nearly grabbed hold of the spark of emotion I felt and tore itself to pieces, but I ordered myself to stop. I, Sherlock Holmes, must be the adult, the strong one, the man without a heart. Everything else was falling apart: I must remain firm.
A desperate cry of "Holmes!" ran to me from across the lawn. I covered the distance between me and the two Watsons in a matter of seconds, to find Mary staring up at me expectantly. I knelt beside her, and she surprised me by grasping my hand tightly with her own.
"I..... I took care of him.... while you were gone." She smiled ruefully. "Now..... it's your turn. Promise me.... you will take care of him..... when I'm gone. Promise."
"I promise," I said. There was nothing else to say.
She smiled. "Good. Tell John......"
I never found out what I was supposed to tell him. She slipped away, between one breath and the next. The hand in mine became limp and fell to the ground.
I still cannot fathom why it is in the nature of humanity to deny what has occurred. It's so illogical, so pointless, accomplishing nothing – and yet, unfailingly, whenever tragedy strikes, the first word out of the mouth of a human being is the word "no."
Watson had the decency to utter it only once, in a slow, heart-rending murmur. Only once, because he knew, like I did, that reality could not be undone.
He grasped Mary's still form to his chest, crying into the golden curls, shaking. I thought for a moment that I understood, but my mind came down with a heavy heel, telling me that it was not my place to feel. I turned away once again, and as I did, I felt less than a man. Much, much less than the one who knelt on the ground behind me, weeping.
I saw the housekeeper dashing round the corner of the house, her apron flapping against her knees, her eyes wide with horror. She stared around her, bewildered, and probably would have screamed had I not grasped her by the shoulder and shaken her firmly.
"Send for the police," I ordered in a flat tone. "Now. Go quickly."
She hesitated but obeyed. I turned around to see Watson stumble to his feet and stagger over to where his child lay on the ground. He picked her up gently, as if she were still alive, and held her against his shoulder, staring at me wild-eyed over her blood-stained head. I worried that his face might freeze like that, and that he would go on staring for hours, as I have seen some men do when they are stricken by grief. But slowly he closed his eyes and turned his face away from me, pressing his lips to the tiny ear and kissing it for the last time.
The police came. I was not consciously aware of specifics during that time – at least, not in a way I remember. I was in charge, to some extent, and I oversaw the details, ordering people around where I saw fit, once again becoming all brain and sending that rebellious, wild heart away somewhere where it wouldn't be in the way. I didn't allow it to return until it was just me and Watson, in a cab headed for Baker Street.
He was quiet – too quiet. His silence was a way of lying, to me and to himself. We both knew that he was not coping. Not in the least.
In between moments of being anxious about him and the fact that he was so quiet, I found myself staring out the window, pondering Mary's last charge to me, knowing that I was completely inadequate for the task. It took more than a man to deal with grief of this kind. I could not possibly hope to chase away his sorrow like she wanted me to do.
Or was that what she wanted me to do?
I didn't know.
Well then, what could I do?
I glanced over at the man sitting next to me – sitting far too straight – and the look on his face startled me. Not because it was out of place, but because it was so painfully familiar.
And there appeared another one of those strange moments that woke the wild heart. Not fear, but a memory.
A grave. Three people standing by the grave – a man, an older boy, and a younger boy. The older one grasps the younger one's hand and whispers in his ear.
Don't cry, Sherlock.
Me. The face I made as I stood there, not crying.
Where had the boy gone?
He had been hurt, hurt terribly. So he had turned into a man as quickly as he could, so that he would be immune to the pain.
But what could Watson turn into? He had no option. He had to remain with his grief, or else....
I saw in that moment, looking at him, that I could not allow him to do to himself what Mycroft had done to me. He could not run away from himself. He had to remain Watson, even if that Watson was in pain. I could not allow him to turn himself into less than a man.
We arrived at Baker Street. I lead the way up the stairs, stopping halfway up to make sure he was still following me. He was, but slowly, mechanically. I wouldn't have been surprised if he had simply remained at the bottom of the stairs, staring up them but unable to ascend.
We entered the sitting room. I went to stoke up the fire, but he just stood in the doorway, frozen, staring at nothing.
"Sit," I commanded him firmly.
He did. Still, he sat up too straight, staring into somewhere I could not see, far too quiet.
I knew the sea of turmoil that he had bottled up inside himself, because it had once been mine. He never was very good at deceiving anyone, me least of all.
But why was he still holding it in? Didn't he know that I had brought him here so that he could be alone with whatever emotional reaction saw fit to possess him? He was safe here; no one would see him cry.....
Unless he was holding it in because of me?
Confounded fool, even in the midst of his own tragedy he still thought of me, and the discomfort an emotional display would cause me. Discomfort be hanged! I saw where he was, what he was, and he could not go on like this!
"Watson."
He started and looked up at me.
"You needn't retain your composure here, my dear fellow. It's alright."
He continued to stare at me, unbelieving.
Having begun, I did not know how to continue. I walked toward the door, saying I would go find Mrs. Hudson. I figured it would be better for him if I didn't bellow for her like I normally do.
When I returned with her a few minutes later, he was still sitting in the exact same position I had left him, staring into the cryptic flames. Mrs. Hudson set down the tea tray and looked at him a few moments before turning to me.
"Do something, Mr. Holmes," she whispered as she walked out. "He can't go on like that."
I agreed wholeheartedly, but I mentally confessed myself to be at my wit's end. I had given him permission to release his emotion, but he had not listened. In matters of the heart I possessed little experience and no tact....
Oh, forget about tact. I was bound to offend him and make a complete mess of the situation, but I could not allow things to remain as they were.
"Watson."
This time he did not look up at me.
"Watson!"
I grasped his shoulders and shook him gently. His eyes slowly slid upward to alight on my face, and as I looked into them it felt oddly like looking into my own eyes – the eyes of the little boy of long ago who had obeyed his big brother's words and refused to weep.
"You cannot do this to yourself," I said slowly, distinctly. "You have to mourn."
He looked frightened. "But you, Holmes...."
"Forget about me," I ordered. "You must weep."
He started shaking, and I was surprised by the anger that came into his face. "What would you know?" he sneered, tears filling his eyes. "You can't possibly understand. You have no idea what I feel."
"You are wrong!" I snapped before I could stop myself. I straightened up and paced fitfully over to the window. Mentally I cursed myself, angry at my outburst, confused by the emotions that demanded to be heard.
Don't cry, Sherlock.
Behind me, I heard the sound I had been waiting to hear. I heard a sob. A quiet, unwilling one, but one all the same. The first crack in the dam, small at first, but I knew it could not help but get bigger. And it did. Slowly but surely, Watson came apart.
I knelt beside his chair and wrapped my arm around his shoulders to steady him as each great cry shook his chest, doing it because it was the only thing I could do. In the midst of it, his reeling voice formed a question, moaning it with such agony that it hurt even me.
"What am I, Holmes?" he asked. "What am I now? This morning I was husband.... father. But what am I now?"
I didn't think I could answer the question. There was the logical answer, of course, but the logical one would never, ever do. I was surprised when I found myself speaking, without any previous intention of doing so.
"You are John H. Watson, a doctor, my friend, and a man of the highest caliber."
He laughed bitterly. "How can you say that I am a man?" he asked. "Are you.... even looking... at me? I'm bawling like a child.... I've lost control.... I can't...."
I gripped him tighter. "No. To weep is to be human. To not grieve is to be less than human."
He stared at me through the fog of his tears, slowly realizing how much the statement surprised him. No doubt he was wondering if it was truly me speaking. It was. A different me, one that I had forgotten for a very long time.
"You heard her last words. You may consider me to be a mind without a heart, but she left me in your hands. And I'm not going to let you drown."
I don't think he believed me then. But I was true to my word. He didn't drown.
Perhaps the good Lord was smarter than I, to give me a heart as well as a brain.