Title: Company
A/N: not so depressing, but still sad. And short. Pthhbt… - Anyway, please read and review!
"Watson, I hope you know it's been very hard without you always within reach." He wasn't expecting a reply, but got one anyway.
"You make it sound as if it's my fault." His mind supplies the answer, he knows it's his mind, but he goes on talking to himself. (There's no one else to talk to.)
"Damn it all, but it is. You're the one who left me, you know." It's all terribly foolish of him, the conversation, the blame, but it's there, and without Watson to remind him, foolish is what he becomes.
He doesn't want to talk about this particular subject anymore, so he changes it. Watson doesn't fight the change, because Holmes won't let him. "Despite all my efforts to the contrary, my dear Watson, it seems that I shall die of old age."
"Dear God, Holmes, you make it sound like a crime."
He doesn't say all the things he wants to say, the things spilling up from inside him, almost past his lips. The things like, "You should have been the one growing old, with rheumatism in your knees and ankles," and much simpler things like, "Forgive me," and things he doesn't even dare to name. His control is too absolute, after years of practice, and anyway, the Watson inside his head already knows. The real Watson couldn't possibly hear. (He's buried too deep, and Holmes doesn't believe in Heaven.)
All he dares to say is, "It is, Watson my dear, it is."
He tries to get up from the ground where he's been kneeling, but finds that he can't, the rheumatism's acting up again. So he sits, and stays a while longer, in the churchyard, under an oak tree, beside Watson, and thinks about company. It's funny how you don't notice 'till it's gone.