Authoress' Notes:
Last night, the song "They're Coming to Take Me Away" came up on iTunes, and it struck me that it sounds pretty good for a post—Mary Holmes.
This is, after much revision, the result.
Disclaimer: If I owned it, the gay would be way more obvious.
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Fragility
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"Beneath your mask of logic, I sense a fragility. That concerns me."
—Lord Henry Blackwood
Sherlock Holmes stood in the middle of his room, staring around at the endless heaps of books, papers, experiments left unfinished, and finding no meaning in anything he saw. All of his work, his brilliance, his experiments, and here he was, throat aching and eyes stinging like the dullest of common idiots.
He'd kept up the façade for as long as was required. He'd applauded politely, when Watson looked into –that damned, evil, despicable—Mary's eyes and said, in a voice slightly hoarse with emotion, "I do." He'd smiled, as was proper, as the –imperfect, poorly matched—couple kissed, swallowing the unfamiliar lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat. He had behaved well while delivering his speech, keeping to himself his true opinions about the –misery, quarrels, pain—future that faced this couple—or maybe he was the delusional one, and they'd live happily ever after. I hope not.
He glared at an old waistcoat of Watson's, tossed carelessly across the back of a chair. The thing's presence suddenly enraged him, and he stalked over to snatch it up, throwing it impulsively into the fire. A smile worked its way across his face, and he watched with a certain vindictive pleasure as the garment shriveled and smoked in the grate. But the smile faded soon enough. Watson's favorite, that one. Comfortable, with good, sturdy stitching. Even though it was too small for him, he'd still loved it.
Like he loves her.
The room was too quiet—everything had been too quiet since then. Even Gladstone had left, going to live with the happy couple, leaving Holmes alone. So alone, without Watson.
His tightly clenched fists shook, nails digging into his palms, and he suddenly let out a sound halfway between a strangled scream and a shout, kicking a cluttered table over. Papers, books, a half-empty glass of wine and a set of scales fell to the floor with a crash. Unsatisfied, he moved on to the chair next to it, then to another table, then one stack after another. As his possessions crashed to the floor, one after another, Holmes cursed incoherently—he wasn't even sure what language he was speaking at this point. He just kept pushing and kicking and cursing until the room was unrecognizable. What had once been organized chaos was now indiscriminate destruction.
Breathing hard, he stared around him, practically twitching with nervous energy. Making a decision, he picked up his coat and left the room, dashing down the stairs to the front door. He set out at a sprint to the seediest part of London he knew. He could use a fight right now.
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I almost had Holmes leave the revolver behind, and since Watson wasn't there to bring it to him, he got himself killed, but that felt a little too clichéd.
I do hope I got Blackwood's quote right—I think I wrote it down correctly, but I'm not sure. If it turns out it's not correct, I'll go back and fix it.
In other news, my dad bought me a gigantic stuffed frog (like three or four feet tall), and I named him Gladstone. :D
Please review!