AN: I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters mentioned. They are creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the imaginative playthings of the geniuses known as Mark Gatiss and Stephen Moffat. I only own my own mad ideas. I sincerely hope you enjoy this!
Hello my dear reader. I hope that I find you well, that you have had a pleasant day, or are about to embark on one. It's been warm. I trust you are keeping yourself well hydrated. There is tea in the kitchen; Earl Grey I believe. If you'd like some, please feel free to make yourself a cup, and come here and join me in the sitting room. If you take them, sugar is in the cabinet near the sink, and the milk is in the refrigerator, please help yourself but do watch for body parts. I'd of course, make it for you myself, but as you can plainly see; I have no arms. So come, come! Sit down anywhere you'd like. Make yourself comfortable, we will be here awhile.
Who am I, you may be asking yourself. Well I am nobody. Yes, I see the pun in what I just said. I literally and figuratively am no-body. I was somebody once. I had a name and everything. But that is unimportant now. I have been dead for quite a while. So I guess you can call me The Observer. For that is what I do. I observe all from my quiet albeit slightly dusty mantle. I have been in the company, (that is to say possession) of Mr. Sherlock Holmes for quite some time now and have seen much.
So now we begin. How's your tea? This will be a tale taken from the perspective of some of my observations. Our story begins last year, on the date of August 3rd, 2010. I hope you will enjoy this story as much as I will enjoy telling it.
...
"Tea, Sherlock?" John asked from the kitchen.
"No thank you." He responded irritably. John made him a cup anyway and put it on the coffee table near the couch where the detective was lying sprawled out like an overly large cat. He looked at it and sniffed his disapproval.
"Oh just drink it." John snapped, sitting down in his armchair taking the newspaper. "Don't think I don't know you haven't eaten since yesterday, and that's only because I forced you." Instead of responding, Sherlock merely turned over on his side, back to John and brought his knees to his chest.
"Look...Sherlock" the doctor said, his voice more gentle. "You haven't had any cases in almost a week, and I know you're bored and frustrated, but not eating isn't going to make Lestrade bring you a murder to solve any faster. Don't you think you might feel a little better if you ate something?"
"No" came his muffled, petulant reply.
"Fine Sherlock. You're the genius. I'm just the doctor. Do what you want." He unfurled his paper and began to read. Well, not really read so much as watch Sherlock over the top of the page. After a few minutes, he rolled back over and sat up. He snatched his cup and emptied it in three swift gulps. He then set it back down with an exaggerated flourish. "There! All gone! Satisfied?"
"No. But it's better than nothing." Watson replied.
"It was tepid."
"Well maybe if you drank it when I gave it to you instead of arguing, it would have been hot." John retorted, impatience in his voice.
Sherlock jumped up and began pacing, his blue dressing gown swishing with each abrupt turn; his bare feet padding on the floor. I have seen the look he now wore on his face so many times. He was craving something. I had witnessed my companion smoking cigarettes and doing cocaine, but this was beyond that. He was craving a puzzle. Something, anything to keep his mind occupied, something to distract him from his crushing boredom. These cravings went so far beyond the craving for narcotics for Sherlock Holmes. His face was taut with anxiety, his fingers moving spastically, his hands raking wildly through his hair. If he didn't get a fix soon, he was going to self-destruct.
John Watson apparently caught the warning signs as well, because he said very calmly: "Sherlock, please sit down. You're going to worry Mrs. Hudson."
"GOD!" He cried out. "Who the bloody hell CARES?!" He threw himself into his chair drumming the arms madly with his fingers, rocking back and forth, his eyes darting frantically across the room, never settling on anything. "I need a cigarette!"
"No. No you don't Sherlock. You're just bored." John replied, putting down his newspaper. "You haven't had a cigarette in over a month. You've even cut way back on the nicotine patches. You are doing so well."
"Please John! I need something!" He leaned forward; steepled his fingers, eyes locked onto John's. "Please." He repeated, his voice low and hurting. The eyes that met his were full of pain and addiction, silently screaming for John to bring him something to take it away. I knew that the doctor knew exactly what Sherlock meant. "Take away my boredom John." His eyes were saying. "It hurts John." They said. "Please help me John." All of these things, he conveyed wordlessly.
John leaned in towards the younger man. Pain was written in his eyes as well as he touched his knee gingerly with his fingers. "I'm sorry Sherlock." He said. "I am so sorry."
"Is there anything on the website? Anything at all?" Sherlock asked for about the eighth time since that morning.
"Again Sherlock, no. Just be patient. Something will come your way."
"But when?!" He threw himself backwards in his chair, almost upsetting it. He ran his hands through his curly hair.
"I don't know." John replied then smiled faintly before adding "This is London. I'm sure a murder will happen soon." His smile became broader at that.
"What? What's so funny?" the detective asked irritably.
"Only you would be comforted by the idea that a grisly murder could be happening as we speak." John's smile turned into a light chuckle.
"One can only hope." Sherlock muttered darkly, apparently unable to find the humour. As if on cue, his mobile phone vibrated on the floor where Sherlock had dropped it in his frantic pacing. He threw himself on the floor, scrambling for the mobile. "Lestrade!" He whispered, scooping the phone up and sitting back down.
"Sherlock Holmes." He said into the mouthpiece with as much forced calm as he could muster. "Yes. Yes. Of course. I'll be there." He hung up the phone and stood up. "We have a case." He looked over at John. A huge smile was spreading all over his face. "Yes!" He started heading for the door. "Come on John!"
"Ahem." John cleared his throat. "Er…Sherlock. Don't you think you might be forgetting something?" Watson asked, still seated. When Sherlock merely stared at him, John nodded pointedly at his chest. The younger man looked down at himself. "Oh. Just a moment." He sprinted to his bedroom, leaving a visibly amused John in his wake.
Five minutes later a properly clothed Sherlock Holmes emerged from his bedroom, and rejoined John in the sitting room. They donned their coats and Sherlock put on his usual blue scarf and the two men left the flat, eagerly waiting to see where this new adventure would take them.
...
Now then, my dear Reader. They were gone for several hours on this day; so please allow me a brief interlude in which I discuss some of my companion's life as I knew it before Doctor John Watson became a part of it. Please don't hesitate to get some more tea if you'd like.
Before moving into 221B Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes and I resided in another flat in London. It was a lot smaller than the comfortable lodgings we share now. He lived there for almost six years, It was cramped place with boxes of books and papers everywhere. There was a fireplace, and I sat on its mantle, looking into the sitting room. There were two armchairs, and a sofa; the same two armchairs and sofa that currently inhabit 221B as a matter of fact. A bookshelf overflowing with books, a coffee table and a desk. Nothing on the walls which were dingy, painted off- white. There were no rugs, no pictures. There was only one window in the whole room, which only let in a sparse amount of light. There was no telly, no radio. He never lit a fire. In short, it was a rather miserable place.
Sherlock himself looked pretty miserable as well. He was so thin back then. Even thinner than he is now, if you can imagine it. He very seldomly ate. How could he? He never remembered to buy food for himself. His eyes had permanent purple bruises beneath them in evidence of his sleepless nights. He was rarely in the flat. When he was home, he was in the kitchen performing one of his experiments or pacing. He played the violin occasionally, even though the only one to hear was me.
It was during this time I witnessed him injecting himself with the cocaine needle on a regular basis. It was usually the first thing he did on the first day after a case had been solved, then he would remain high pretty much the entire time until a new case came his way. Sherlock received no visitors, not even his brother. It was a lonely existence. Even the infrequent bursts on the violin were sad and lonely. One night, I saw him take too much cocaine and lose consciousness. He awakened on his own, on the floor and on his side, surrounded by vomit. He cleaned it up using his tshirt and threw the soiled article in the bin.
Four weeks later, he received a visitor. A tall, thin man holding an umbrella breezed into the flat while Sherlock was high on the sofa. It was his elder brother, Mycroft. His eyes hardened when he saw his little brother like that. "I thought as much." He said softly and gripped the handle of his umbrella a little tighter.
I didn't see Sherlock Holmes again for six months.
When he returned back to the flat we shared, I was covered in dust along with nearly every other thing he owned. I was then hastily shoved inside a brown box and taken to yet another tiny flat, this one located near the heart of London. Actually, we were only a few streets away from the comfortable flat we reside in now. With the new lodgings, and his brother's near constant surveillance, I had hoped that it would be the end of Sherlock's drug usage. I was right for about four months.
Then I was wrong.
I didn't see him again for nearly a year this time.
After his return, I was once again forced into a brown box and when I was taken out again, I was placed upon the very mantel you see me on right now. I had learned that for both disappearances, he had been living with his brother in their childhood home and had gotten clean there. It was during the second time away, he had helped his current landlady Mrs. Hudson make sure her husband receive the death penalty in an American prison, Florida I believe. She gave him a break in the rent, but he still needed a flatmate.
Enter John Watson. He had been here for over a year at the time the story I'm relating to you begins, and I haven't seen the needle once in the time leading up to it, or since.
...
The two men returned home roughly nine hours after they left. They were both laughing as they stumbled into the flat. The case had been solved already and it had involved apparently running halfway across London and taking the criminal down in a hail of gunfire, nearly getting killed themselves in the process. Just the way the detective and doctor liked it.
I then witnessed something peculiar. At least, more peculiar than severed heads in the refrigerator. Sherlock looked down and locked eyes with John, who returned his gaze and shifted so they were standing mere inches apart. In life, I had been part of these looks on occasion and understood exactly what they meant. The atmosphere of 221B became heavy and almost electric. Sherlock moved closer and brought his hand up to cup John's chin when a knock sounded at the door, and they jumped guiltily apart, the charged atmosphere dissipating instantly.
John answered the door, and Detective Inspector Lestrade stepped in, needing to take their statements and apologizing for the late intrusion. Sherlock sat in his chair and snapped his answers to Gregory's questions. John fetched them all tea with a look of confusion and wonder clearly written in his eyes.
Nothing at all was done when Lestrade left two hours later. John excused himself and went upstairs to bed. Sherlock paced the sitting room awhile, and then stared out the window. He fell asleep on the sofa just as the sun was beginning to rise. John came downstairs a while later and found Sherlock asleep curled up, and just looked down at him smiling softly. He then took the blanket off the back of the sofa and gently put it on him. I saw him then almost touch Sherlock's curls to brush them off his forehead, but stopping himself at the last second. He moved back and breathed deep for a moment before he turned and left for work.
Sherlock awakened a little later when the sun had fully risen and was hitting him in the face. He frowned at the blanket then smiled. "John." He said softly and turned over on his back, bringing his fingers under his chin in that all-too-familiar position.
He didn't move from that position for pretty much the whole day. Sherlock Holmes in my observation was an odd creature in this respect. He occasionally would do things like this, sitting or lying in a single position for hours at a time. Usually when his brain was focused on a problem and his mental faculties were at their zenith. Then when he was bored or anxious, he wouldn't be able to sit still for even mere minutes at a time, before flitting off in a new direction. He would pace or tap his fingers and toes, or rock back and forth, the energy in his body being almost too much to take. If his brain was at full power, his body was prone. If his brain was prone, his body nearly exploded from too much spare energy. The second scenario was always the worst part to watch, as I have shown earlier in the narrative.
Around four pm, Sherlock rose from his position on the sofa and left the sitting room. He arrived nearly twenty minutes later, freshly showered and changed. He then played a while on the violin. A piece of his own, I figured out. It was nice to hear him play again. Earlier in our acquaintance, he would rarely play, and when he did it was usually screeching or just a singular note again and again. It was nice to hear him play actual music and his own compositions. I could tell he was tense, but the music was helping to soothe him. I wasn't sure why he was so anxious, but it must have had something to do with what happened the night before.
I have of course witnessed small moments between Doctor Watson and Sherlock Holmes over these last few months. Moments that told me that there was something brewing between these two. Certain looks in a moment of quiet spoke volumes. John would look up over his laptop at him and just smile for no reason when Sherlock couldn't see him. He would always flush a little and look hastily away when he realized he had been staring. Sherlock would look at John when John was reading or blogging on his computer and smile as well. I witnessed both of them staring at the other when they had emerged from the loo, freshly showered. I had listened to conversations that took hours. And I had seen John attend to Sherlock when he had been hurt, bored or ill with a patience I had never before witnessed.
I have even seen Sherlock attempt to take care of John when he was in similar predicaments. There had been one occasion in which John had the stomach flu and had been confined to the sofa for three days. Sherlock had risen to the occasion with round the clock care, tip toeing around the flat, making absolutely no noise. Mrs. Hudson had made soup for him, which Sherlock administered, gently sitting him up and holding the bowl for him. It was a level of humanity and sweetness I had never seen coming from my companion.
But most of all and best of all, I have seen them slot together and fit together like puzzle pieces. They brought out the best in each other. Sherlock brought out John's sense of adventure and his honor. I could see he was lost when he came to 221B. He was limping and had a look in his eyes that said "What am I? Where am I going? Who am I?" but Sherlock had brought him back the battlefield he so desperately missed, and gave him a purpose again.
John on the other hand, brought out Sherlock's humanity in spades. He gave Sherlock the audience his intellect craved. He was unashamed in his admiration for his brilliance, but he was also unafraid to stand up to him and tell him no and to call him out when he was being an arse. He showed Sherlock that the world didn't completely hate him. He showed him what it was like to care for another person, to trust and rely on someone else for support. John showed him that maybe having a human connection wasn't such a bad thing. That sometimes, it even helped him think. There had been moments where Sherlock had epiphanies involving cases that came directly after a quiet dinner with John. The smile that would come over Sherlock's face in those moments made John smile too, and that was something to see.
Around quarter after five, Sherlock put down his violin and put the kettle on. When the water boiled, he prepared a cup of tea but not the way he usually took it. He set it on the counter near the stove in the kitchen, and returned to his violin.
The doctor arrived home at five thirty, looking tired and a bit haggard. His shoulders sagged a little and his eyes were worn. Sherlock was still playing the violin when John entered the flat, but he turned around when he heard him come in. He smiled and asked "Thai tonight?"
"Just a cup of tea right now." John responded, putting down his bag and heading for the kitchen. He saw the steaming cup and nodded at it. "Is this for me?" He asked.
"Obviously." Sherlock replied from near the window. "No sugar."
John picked it up and sniffed it. "It smells like tea…" He said, suspicion clear in his voice.
"For heaven's sake John." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I haven't drugged it."
"Wouldn't be the first time." John replied and sipped it. Then he smiled. "It's perfect. Thank you." He brought it out into the sitting room and sat heavily in his chair.
"You're welcome." He turned back to the window and began to play again. John took a deep sip of tea and set the cup down on the table next to him and leaned back, closing his eyes. He wore a look of peace as he listened. Sherlock was talented when he wanted to be.
Sherlock stopped playing abruptly after a few minutes. "So. When are we going to talk about what happened, or didn't happen last night?"
John sat up and looked at him warily. "Nothing happened, Sherlock." He said slowly.
"Oh you and I both know that something was about to happen if Lestrade hadn't interrupted." He put his violin down and sat in his own chair across from John's steepling his fingers. "I would like to know what it was."
"Jesus, Sherlock. Do we have to talk about this now?" John asked rubbing his face with his hands.
"When would be a better time, then? After dinner? Tomorrow? Never?" Sherlock looked hard at him. "When would you care to discuss it?"
"Look. Nothing happened, and nothing was going to happen. I told you once before, I don't know about you, but I'm not gay."
"I never said you were. But it is clear that you are at the very least attracted to me. Last night proved it." Sherlock replied matter-of-factly. He leaned forward and stared at him intensely. "Your breathing was accelerated and your pupils were blown completely. As they are right now." He reached out and took John's wrist. "Your pulse has gone faster as well. Do you need more evidence?"
John wretched his wrist out of Sherlock's grasp and got to his feet. "That's enough!" He exclaimed angrily. "You listen to me, Sherlock. You listen to me right now! I am not gay, I am not attracted to you, and I'm certainly not in love with you!"
"Love?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Who said anything about love? I was merely talking about attraction. But you choose the word love. Interesting."
He stood up and glided over so they were only a few inches apart. John turned away. "I'm going to bed." He began walking towards the door, but only got a few steps before Sherlock grasped him by the wrist and simultaneously pulled and spun him into his arms.
"What the hell are you doing?" John demanded, trying to break free. Sherlock had his arms encircled around him in a tight grip.
"Proving my point." Sherlock replied in a low voice and kissed him.
I could see John's eyes widen over Sherlock's shoulder, but in a matter of moments, he seemed to melt into the kiss and wrapped his arms around the taller man tightly, kissing him back. After a while, they broke apart naturally and Sherlock loosened his grasp on John's waist.
"Tell me I'm wrong." Sherlock said softly. "Tell me you don't want me. That you don't love me, and I will let you go right now and we will never speak of this again. We will go back to the way things were and I will never touch you or mention it again. Just look me in the eye and tell me and I promise to believe you."
"No." John replied, his voice tremulous. "No…I can't tell you that because it would be a lie. God, Sherlock…I have been in love with you for a long time. I just…never..."
"Realized it?" Sherlock supplied for him.
"I think part of me knew it, knew it for a long time." John said after a moment. "Maybe that's why I fought so hard against other people's assumptions we were romantically involved. Because…on some level, I wanted to be and didn't want to face it. I have never felt for anyone what I feel for you." He let out a shaky laugh. "Good lord, everyone was right."
"In your defense, I never exactly made my own feelings for you known either." Sherlock gently stroked his cheek with his long violinist's fingers.
"How long, Sherlock?" John asked.
"I have been in love with you for exactly seven months, three days, eight hours and…" He consulted his watch. "nine minutes now."
"How very precise." John smiled at him.
"It was a Wednesday. We had just come back from wrapping up a case. You remember the one in which I was thrown into the Thames, and you jumped in after me? After shooting that drug lord in the leg so he couldn't run away until the police showed up?"
John nodded at the memory. "I pulled you out and administered CPR because you stopped breathing." He paused. "You nearly drowned, you stupid prat." He said without any venom.
"But do you remember what you said to me when I opened my eyes?" Sherlock asked softly.
"Thank god you're alive." John responded.
"Then I smiled, and you called me an idiot and gripped me by the coat and wouldn't let go until the ambulance arrived."
"And that was the night you fell in love with me? The night you nearly died, and I called you an idiot?" he asked incredulously.
Sherlock looked down into John's eyes and said "That was the night I knew that I would be happy to let you call me an idiot for the rest of my life."
John gripped the front of the other man's shirt and pulled him down for a kiss, which Sherlock happily returned. When this kiss broke, John took his hand and led him out the door.
When they came downstairs late the next morning hand-in-hand, they were both tousle haired, and had matching sleep deprivation bruising under their eyes.
I had never seen two people look happier.
...
Well, dear Reader. It seems we have come to the end of the story. It's really just the beginning, however. Every day Sherlock Holmes and John Watson add more and more to it, and I think that by the ending of their personal tale, there will be enough to fill entire books. Books about adventure and two men running around London, solving crimes and blogging about it. But most of all, they would be books about two men who discovered their other half and then fell head over heels in love with each other, and really my dear Reader. Isn't that the best thing of all?
Fin