Doctor's wives die young
After the death of Mary Watson, nee Morstan, John Watson is left seemingly alone with his grief. But note the word "seemingly", if you please...The snow was beginning to fall at a ridiculous pace, nearing an English blizzard, but the solitary figure in the graveyard stood where he was, seeming oblivious to the conditions of the weather. Dr Watson continued to gaze down at the neat granite stone that bore the name of his wife as emotions of grief, guilt, pain and sorrow wracked through him. How was it that he, a skilled army doctor who had saved lives in the war, could not save the woman he loved? How could it be that God had snatched her away from him so soon? They had wanted a family, wanted children, but Watson quickly tried to push those thoughts away. He was an emotionally strong man- friendship with Sherlock Holmes had educated him in that, as had army service, but losing his beloved wife to an illness which he had not been able to help with had nearly broken him. Watson drew in a shaky breath to compose himself. How he would miss her. The way she was curious about his work. The way she would never fail to cheer him up. Her hospitality to every visitor and the way she would even put up with Holmes insisting on using Watson's consulting room to experiment with chemicals on more than one occasion. Her kind and sweet nature, and her tendency to always put others before herself. Her loss was hurting the doctor in a way he had never really felt before.
Suddenly, Watson became aware that he was not alone. Beside him stood a tall, gaunt figure dressed in black, and Watson did not even need to look properly at him before he was sure who it was.
"Good afternoon, Holmes." He said flatly.
"I thought I might find you here." Holmes replied. There was an unusual tone to his voice; it sounded almost...gentle.
"How so?" came Watson's reply.
"It is the only sense of closeness available to the one who has passed." Holmes said, still in that different tone. Watson finally turned to look at him properly and the detective observed his dark green grief-stained eyes. "Life has been cruel to you, my friend." Holmes went on softly.
"No more than it has before." Watson looked back down at the gravestone and a silence ensued. Then to the doctor's surprise, Holmes gently laid a hand on his shoulder in the most intimate gesture of sympathy he had ever shown.
"What do you intend to do now?" he asked.
"Move to somewhere closer to the centre of London, to start." Was the reply. "I don't want to stay in the house where she died. I have had an offer of part-time work at a central hospital, and then I suppose life will go on."
"It always does." Holmes said, then glanced up at the sky. "I will not force anything on you, Watson, but even my limited medical knowledge admits that this weather is to be avoided. If you wish to stay then-"
"No." Watson shook his head slowly. "I should go. I have my practice to sort out before I move."
"I see." Nothing more was said as they walked towards the gates leading out onto the bustling road, a world oblivious to the pain one of its members was feeling. The two men bid each other a farewell, and Dr Watson began to walk away, when Holmes called after him suddenly.
"You know, Watson..." Holmes said slowly, yet determinedly. "There will always be a place for you in 221b Baker Street. I have missed my Boswell, and you would be welcomed back."
A small smile flitted across the doctor's face as he replied,
"Holmes, I may well take you up on that offer."
"I am glad to hear it."
(A little fic I wrote inspired by Berende's artwork of the same title...check it out if you have the time! art/Doctors-Wives-Die-Young-136586553)