One Woman
Watson's voice droned in his head, what the subject of conversation was he couldn't say. The woman played constantly in his thoughts. When he looked in to the street, all he could see in the faces of those that passed was her, her mocking smile, her twinkling eyes. He closed his own and turned his head away from the window.
"Are you alright old man?" Watson asked, dropping his paper and eyeing his roommate curiously.
Holmes ran a finger across his forehead and sighed. Opening his eyes, he attempted a brief smile.
"Yes perfectly, I was just…thinking." He shrugged in what he hoped was a nonchalant manner and threw himself into his armchair. Watson raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
It was such a dilemma, to see her again, to make contact or to leave the whole sorry affair alone. He did like to look at it through rose tinted glasses somewhat, that theirs had been a grand love affair that had meant something – as opposed to what it actually was. A whim, a brief infatuation that took a while to burn out but which eventually did just that. And yet, there was something, there was some underlying feeling that forbid this hopelessness. It can't all have been a lie. But it was. They had never even touched, spoken yes , many times but as…well as what? Certainly not as friends. He could not be sure, but what he had felt when he looked into her eyes and listened to her voice – surely that was real? And what he had received in return, was that not mutual admiration – even love? What an absurd notion. That two people who had never really spoken about anything of consequence and had never touched could possibly proclaim to be in love! His heart raged at the idea, that all those feelings, all they had meant was worthless. It was this contradiction that was taking him to the very edge of his sanity.
A sigh escaped him, how, if it had not meant something, was she constantly in his thoughts? Even though he had stood and watched as she had married someone else had there been hope still that she loved him? That one day she would tell him. The words, of course never came, not from him or her. To him they seemed unspoken, not needed. Perhaps they were exactly what was needed, to end the ambiguity that plagued him. Sometimes it was enough, to have had that strength of feeling, even if it meant nothing to her, it had changed him.
He had written to her only once after she had left London with her new husband. A man he felt no jealousy towards, no hatred. He felt nothing. He felt that what they had been to each other transcended what they could possibly have had together – his arrogance knew no bounds. His letter was formal with only a hint of something more, her reply was more formal still. It thanked him and told him briefly of her travels but no more, there was no subtle hint of what he felt had been. He had cried when he had read it, whether from frustration or disappointment he could not tell.
She would always be in his thoughts he knew that – and thanks to the dear doctor's writings she should would also be in everyone else's. Damn the man and his insight, he was right there was but one woman to him and even if she did not care for him, there would never be anyone else.