"I think you can do much better than me." Holmes' words were simple; he stated them bluntly in a silence that had been companionable before he ruined it. Like he ruined everything. Watson simply looked at his friend, comprehending what he had said.
But Holmes had his reasons for trying to convince Watson that they should no longer be lovers; for all the lies that he had made him believe. Times he had said he was simply going to the boxing ring, of which Watson disapproved enough out of worry, but actually making his way to an opium den, doing the one thing Watson forbade him to do.
And when actually at the boxing ring, afterwards picking up any youth and seeking a different, but no less rough kind of redemption. Tainting all the times Watson had made love to him with some meaningless boy.
That was where Holmes had been that night. And it was the time he had finally thought about what he was doing. Guilt kicked in, and he started to see; his mind returned and screamed that he could not carry on lying to Watson.
The doctor understood the implications of Holmes' words, and opened his mouth to protest, but the look the detective gave him, trying to explain that he was a terrible person and would only drag the doctor down with him, sent Watson storming out of the room, and slamming the front door behind him.
Before he had left, Watson had taken a few items he would need for a night or two away. For an eternal moment, Holmes stood, staring at the edge of the bed, where Watson's nightshirt always used to be. Now there was only his own, on the opposite edge.
Holmes lost count of the number of minutes he stood in the bathroom, scrutinising his own reflection. He told himself, "I won't miss you," speaking of John. "I will inot/i miss him." If only he could convince himself, then perhaps it would be true.
The hardest part was convincing himself though. Sherlock Holmes curled up in empty sheets, alone for the first time in nearly a year. All he could feel was the pressing emptiness. He remembered how it was to be beside John Watson, interlinking fingers, shuffling close to him.
He remembered the times that John, sweet, good John would need such comfort as Holmes could give. Sherlock would pull him close and bury his face in John's hair, noticing how soft it always was and how it smelt of antiseptic and soap, like John did.
He remembered how John tasted when they kissed, in excruciating detail. The taste of innocence; every sense filled with John's innocence. It was part of the reason Holmes loved him so; the anonymous partners at the boxing ring all tasted of the rank, despicable activity. Not his Watson. Not his beautiful, innocent John.
Holmes had no innocence about him. He thought Watson should know it. John should know he deserved much better than he.
If there was one memory Holmes did not want to lose, it would be the one depicted in the photo he kept in his locked drawer. The one he had stolen from John, who was always looking for it. The one that showed them both as the best friends they were, smiling, handsome, together. It had been taken after the completion of their first case, which Watson had told Holmes he wanted to document. Such innocence and naivety shown again.
Holmes lay there, staring at it now, in the bed that only felt colder with each passing minute. His heart felt colder with each passing minute, though before he had met John Watson, he never would have professed to have one. He remembered a promise he had made to Watson, another he had broken, another lie. He had said it would never be over.
He wished that he hadn't said it iwas/i over either.
He could never pretend he wouldn't think about Watson as the years passed, seeing as he had not ended everything in explicit terms. He had never given proper closure, but Watson had gone. It couldn't be the end. It just couldn't.
But it was. Holmes had to live with the knowledge that it was partly the doctor's decision to leave too. Perhaps then, Watson idid/i know he deserved much better.
But oh, how he would miss all of John's physical beauty as much as his smiling innocence.
Holmes kept the photograph to remember everything he and Watson had been and the reasons behind everything.
He kept it as a reminder of what Watson should always know. He deserved much better than Holmes.