I had this lying around for a while and my plan was to finish at least a raw version before I put anything up. But now I changed my mind in the hope that I will feel more pressured to finish it, once I uploaded the first chapters. The central idea is not very original - classic slash motive - but I usually enjoy reading those stories and I hope so will others.
As you all know, I do not own Sherlock Holmes, I'm just playing with other people's property here.
1. Prologue
John Watson enjoys the tidy look of his dinner-table: Roasted chicken and potatoes, fresh flowers, porcelain service, polished silverware and a white table cloth – nothing else.
No suspicious substances the smell of which is an insult to the nostrils and would put less hardened stomachs off their food in seconds (sometimes his too, despite his hard-bitten experience); no dirty handkerchiefs, half-finished and half-rotten sandwiches or pieces of cloth drenched in blood and sweat that of course are all important clues or even 'evidence' and most importantly: no bodies or parts thereof. Not even the repulsive stains and blotches of unknown origin that never even fade with washing and that he had started to believe were an integral part of any self-respecting table cover – no, none of that.
And his beautiful new wife smiles at him as she blows out the match she just lit a long, yellowish candle with, the fire-light bathing her face in a warm and rich glow.
"You're beautiful." he says and she just smiles at him some more. "Go ahead, while it's still warm." she then suggests, gesturing at the steaming dishes and he starts to fill his plate, when suddenly there is a harsh knock at the door.
Mary gives her husband a questioning glance but he just shrugs, so she gets up to answer the door. Watson strains to listen, but he can't hear anything and really, there is no need to, as seconds later a meek and pale-looking Clarky is ushered into the dining room.
"G'evening doctor." he greets nervously. The doctor's features turn stern and it would be hard to miss the annoyance in his voice when he answers: "I thought we had this sorted out once and for all. I am not part of the detective work any more. I thought I had made it very clear that I do not want to be troubled with any crime cases ever again." He turns to his wife who has come in after the policeman: "I am so sorry, dear." Clarky turns his hat in his hands as he goes on to speak: "That's not it doctor. It's about Holmes, I thought you would like to know. He … had an accident."
Coldness overcomes the doctor as his stomach turns into a lump of ice. "What kind of accident?" he whispers, fearing the worst. The officer looks right past his face when he answers: "Um, some kind of wooden construction collapsed on top of him. And, um, someone must have attacked him with a knife before that. Cut right through his eyes. Messy business. Sorry miss." Clarky turns to Mary who has become quite white and puts her right hand up to her mouth in shock.
Watson isn't sure if she said anything, there is a dull hissing in his ears and he starts to feel a little dizzy. "When? How?" he stammers. "We found him this morning, down by the harbour. Must have happened some time that night." the policemen informs him. "Is he ..." There is things you never dare to say out loud and cliché sentences you never wish to hear from your own mouth and this is one of them. Watson thinks that the words feel strange on his lips. Two little words and one left unspoken, but its ghost, in its silence, feels thicker on his tongue than any word has ever done before.
"He's down at St. Anne's Hospital. They say he was quite lucky, with all the debris falling down on him. No severe crushes or something like that." Clarky's voices reaches him through the fog. "Oh." Watson manages, trying to process the information. "Can I see him?" "You'll have to ask the doctors. I just thought you would want to be informed." the officer explains, putting his hat back on. "Yes, thank you Clarky." the doctor replies.
When the messenger of ill news has left he turns, grips the edge of the table to steady himself and then lowers himself down on a chair, finding, as he looks up, that Mary has taken a seat as well and looks at him with pained sympathy. She places a hand on his arm. "I'm sorry love, that's horrible." He breathes deeply and catches her gaze. "Yes. I … I think I should go down to St. Anne's and see if I can find out something more. Sorry ..." He waves a hand at the untouched food on the table. "That's ok. I'll heat it up again later. Rush off." "Thanks." the husband replies, kissing the hand that still rests on his arm and then puts it down on the table gently. And with that he hurries from the room, grabs his coat and is out of the door.
Mary gets up and, with a wistful sigh, blows out the candle-flame.