Written for the WA Alternate Format Challenge.
While I don't always get that much inspiration for this fandom, I thought I could give it a shot through this challenge.
I ask that you don't bludgeon me that harshly for not being able to keep up the way of A.C. Doyle's storytelling.
Also, I will try to stick to Victorian English as much as I can, though, to be frank, it's quite difficult.
Plus, I get to explore the notion of Holmes's unsent letters to Watson and viceversa, and a few diary entries along the way.
'Writing like this' - signifies internal thoughts.
Writing like this - shows only letter/diary entries.
Enjoy!
UNSENT LETTERS
by ShockDreemurr
- Winter of 1891, Florence, in a cozy room at 'Il Cervo' inn -
Sherlock Holmes stood at a large wooden desk as he pondered the words he could write to Watson. His dearest friend, much like the rest of the world, thought him dead, and the sheer realization of it made his heart sink as there was nothing he could do. He then took a piece of good paper and a quill, noticing his hands were shaking with emotion. 'What could I really tell him?' the words crossed his lips, but another statement took over the first, 'You cannot tell him anything. He might reveal that you're alive and well.'
The detective shook his head in bewilderment as he puffed his pipe and started writing, while looking towards the large, curtained windows, aware that the danger would follow him until one member of Moriarty's criminal gang remained.
My dear friend Watson,
I took up the quill to write this letter to you.
While you know I am not a man that allows himself to be under the subject of such emotions, I must confess that something is weighing on my heart.
Your absence, my dear friend, your absence as I linger here in Florence, while you are in London, surrounded by the dull, yet familiar fog that hides the criminal world.
I oft' ponder whether you are safe and sound.
I trust that his gang will not come down for you, for they would commit a grave error in their plans.
They know how valuable you are for me, my dear friend.
Sherlock Holmes.
'This isn't right, Sherlock.' His mind rebelled against the emotions within, and crumpled the written paper with slight anger, tossing it in the fireplace. Gently rubbing his forehead, he took another piece of paper from the desk. 'Why are you even writing letters that you know you'll never send?'
'Because that way, I will not keep these emotions within. I cannot let them interfere! The danger is out there, and it will not cease to exist until his gang is gone.' the detective thought, as a frustrated sigh escaped his lips.
- London, in Doctor Watson's cabinet -
Watson was heavily affected by his friend's recent passing, and also quite angered by the fact Colonel James Moriarty sent him a letter in which he was quite ironic towards the late detective and praising his brother's work. Shaking his head in disappointment, the doctor couldn't help wondering how his life would be without Holmes. Of course, tending to the patients was in his nature, but he missed going out on another adventure alongside his old friend, catching a vicious culprit, serving justice together. Watson picked up the quill and a white piece of paper, beginning to write, at the light of the - still - burning candle, a letter to Holmes. 'Why am I writing this? He is dead, and will never return!'
'Write it. Your very fiber demands that you write what you feel. All the pain, misery and sorrow.' It seemed like the doctor's mind was, for the first time, in the same place as his heart. A sad, yet genuine smile formed under his rather unkempt moustache, and then, picking up a piece of paper, he started writing.
My dear friend Sherlock Holmes,
I don't even know why I am writing this.
I know you are gone from this world, and there's nobody else to serve justice as well as you did.
I must admit that your absence is a grave wound that may never heal itself, no matter how long time would pass.
Mary told me that all this drawing myself into work will not be helpful, but forgive me.
I have to wash away all this pain and I hope you'll not be furious as I will not publish this case.
What am I saying? You cannot be furious at me for this.
Night after night, that dreadful Reichenbach fall comes into my mind, haunting me.
I will certainly miss seeing you in our lodgings.
Your good friend, Watson.
- Florence -
While Watson wrote a letter he would never send, on the Italian peninsula, Holmes reverted to writing in his diary. It was quite unlike the detective to keep such a thing, yet he didn't have much of a choice, his heart was aching for the impossibility of writing to his old friend - but the possibility of Watson putting his whole plan in danger was too strong to be cast away. Holmes' facial expression was unchanged, a constant frown gracing his features as he started writing in the leather notebook.
Florence, year of grace 1891, winter.
I am disappointed by my current choice of action.
It wracks me with grief and sorrow, as I have no friends in this country.
Anyone could be a spy for Moriarty, and I cannot afford to risk my life foolishly.
I am grateful that Mycroft gave me the address of this place - it is the only place where I am safe, for now.
Dear friend Watson, I truly wish to write something to you.
But your affection for me would only jeopardize the plan ahead.
Moriarty, be damned.
- London, in the evening -
Watson fell asleep on the large mahogany desk in his cabinet, the candle still weakly burning as his beautiful wife stood in the doorstep. A part of her didn't want to awaken her husband, but it was necessary that the man would have a good night's rest in the bed upstairs. This very same image repeated night after night, and Mary decided she couldn't let him do that to himself. As she walked towards the desk, she couldn't help noticing a piece of paper just freshly scribbled with a few words.
I miss working with Sherlock Holmes, he was one of the greatest men I've ever met...
'Poor John. He has been writing letters to Mr. Holmes again.' the tall, slim lady mused. She believed him when he said that his days with the man that saved her life in the Study in Scarlet case - as John wrote it - helped him take the daily routine of being a doctor with ease. He must've missed him so. But unlike the injury he suffered during the battle of Maiwand when he was young, this wound might never heal. She then gently woke her husband.
The doctor shook his head a little, surprised by the sudden awakening, and eventually smiled in acknowledgement at the sight of his wife. The movement caused a stray piece of paper to land on the floor, on which was written a letter that Watson knew would never reach Holmes.
My dear friend,
I am writing this - God, I have lost count of the letters I have been writing to you - in a desperate attempt at healing this ache in my soul. I do not wish to upset you even further by writing even more, I know you wouldn't want me to constantly drown myself into this sorrow, you wouldn't want me to abandon all hope in this world with your absence.
Lestrade often comes to visit me, ask me how I am.
But what can a broken man tell him, more than the fact one of the best detectives of this land is gone, and the criminal world rejoices at his death? I often inquire on his cases, hoping there is something noteworthy I can help with, trying to put my deductive skills to use.
I keep remembering how you told me, in that ironic, yet lecturing voice of yours, 'Use my methods, Watson!'
I haven't set foot in our lodgings, in 221B, out of fear that my emotions would be overwhelming, and Miss Hudson is not happy either. She still asks me to come by and see her - which I do - but I do not wish to tread upstairs. So many memories are living in there, memories that I do not wish to disturb.
I want to hope you're alive, but all of those footprints indicated nothing else but your death.
I miss you, old friend.
Watson
- Florence, New Year's Eve, 1891 -
Holmes was packing up to head for his next destination, one that he always wanted to explore. 'Going to Tibet under an alias will help me progress with the Moriarty case, and will let me ease my nerves. Ah, old Boswell, if you were with me, the adventure would've been less bitter,' the detective thought as he let out a long sigh, twirling his cane, and hoped to God that this charade of his will not last too long.
Florence, 31 December 1891
This is the last day I'm residing in this town.
Now I have to prepare myself for the long adventure in Tibet...
And who knows where my footsteps will carry me, in this relentless chase that his gang adores to keep up?
It's been a few months since the incident at Reichenbach, and I swear I can hear my archnemesis yelling from that abyss behind my back.
Four more remain.
And given Lestrade's efficiency, he will probably arrest the other three...
In three years.
Keep your wits, Sherlock.
You'll soon see Watson again, praised be God.
- Tibet, 1892-1893 -
Sherlock Holmes was not a man to trifle himself with descriptive entries in his leather notebook, but even he was impressed by the beauty of the Tibetan landscape. Perhaps the serene atmosphere was what drew Holmes into drawing a few mountains in the distance in the notebook, as the sun was dawning on them. Next to the drawing, he wrote a small entry meant for Watson.
Tibet, 1892.
Watson, I want you to see this beauty as I have seen it.
I hope, one day, I can show you this notebook.
A year later, he managed to get entry to Lhasa, visiting the Dalai Lama - the latter was impressed by the wits of the Englishman before him and, as aware as a spiritual man could be, the old monk advised Sherlock to be wary on the road ahead of him. 'Watson would've also been impressed, able to describe this experience better than I could,' Holmes thought as he left the temple behind him, and noticed a suspicious man standing in the crowd, his eyes following the detective with hatred.
Tibet, 1893.
One more member of the Moriarty gang was caught and another is soon going to be caught as well.
Their relentless chase is still going...
They won't let their guard down too soon.
For once, I'm relieved to know you are safe and sound in London.
I hope to see you again, Watson.
- London, 1892-1893 -
While the good doctor was tending to his patients, he was also busy with writing an important entry in his biographer diary. His wife grew more worried as she saw him trying to be happy, to enjoy things together, yet the empty place in John's heart could never be filled again. She remembered that one day, the doctor was surprised to see Mycroft Holmes at their door.
He was shocked, as if for a moment, he had taken Mycroft Holmes for his brother. But upon realizing the mistake, John excused himself and went to drink a glass of brandy. She asked Mycroft if there was anything he could do for her husband, but the man was content only to shake his head in defeat, as if there was nothing else left to be done. The man also asked her if John wished to leave any heirs for his cabinet, a thing that she found quite curious at the time. Upon hearing John yelling and banging one of his hands nervously on the kitchen table, she politely asked the somewhat corpulent man before her to leave.
Watson rubbed his forehead, a little used up from the whole day he had today, and looked at the entry with a frustrated expression before closing his diary. The doctor was growing tired of mourning his friend - he wanted to make this pain go away.
26 April, 1893.
I have been officially mourning for two years now.
I keep hearing from Lestrade that the Moriarty gang is soon to be completely gone.
But, if I am frank, that will not avenge my friend's death.
I don't feel as if justice is served.
- London, 1894 -
Dr. Watson found himself reading the Times more often, in hopes that something interesting would catch his attention. But all that was in the newspaper, apart from the expedition of a Norwegian explorer called Sigerson in the Orient, didn't interest the doctor in the slightest. He was also mourning for the fourth year, this time, with less pain than before - he was able to talk in a better light about Holmes - as his entries for this year were leaning on the positive side of life.
February 1894.
Fourth year since my friend is gone.
But I'm able to handle the pain much easier.
With time, it will fade away and I'll be able to be happy again.
Though, a part of me wishes that he was still here.
- Somewhere in the Orient, 1894 -
Holmes was in a visit to Khartoum at the time Watson was writing his entry, and found himself compelled by the need to write another letter to his friend. A letter that was going to remain unsent, as the ones previously written in Florence and even in Tibet.
My dear friend Watson,
I trust you are not seeing behind the charade of Sigerson, are you? Ah, as always, oblivious to things that are out of the ordinary. Only Mycroft knows who Sigerson really is, and that I have been given instructions to see what the Mahdist forces are up to...
Old friend, I truly wish to write something to you.
I want to let you know that your friend is alive and well, not dead as you think.
I believe you have been mourning for me for too long, and...
This suffering of ours has to be put to an end, and I promise it will be, soon enough.
The last member of his gang is still at large, hiding in the London fog.
I will come to bring back the light of justice, as you so dramatically like to say.
I also want to see Ms. Hudson, as her morning tea is sorely missed.
Please, do stay safe and sound for me, Watson.
Sherlock Holmes.