Saudade
Summary: In which we find out that boredom and excitement are not the only things the self-proclaimed sociopath does feel. Post-Reinchenbach.
A small reflection on one of the most powerful, untranslatable feelings in the world.
Guilt.
That's what Sherlock Holmes felt as he stood in the shadows watching, observing, pretending he did not exist in a world where, legally, he actually didn't. Not anymore.
He wanted to scream in pain, because it was truly hurting. Not only the bruises and scars from the pseudo-fall, but some parts of him he thought were asleep forever. Inner bruises and scars he left untouched for years, hoping that alone they would heal. That alone he would forget.
No one ever asked why he was like this. No one, except one. People would turn him away the instant they met him, assuming it was just "how the freak works" and that he shouldn't be bothered. Well, they were right. It was how it worked for all people, since always, and it was never really a problem. Until his bubble exploded and he was exposed. He felt exposed.
Who was that man and how did he get so close, why did he stay by his side, what has he done to deserve such friend. He knew him and accepted him, as no one else ever did. And it was good while it lasted, at least to himself he could admit that. But now it was gone. Gone for good.
Still, the man stayed. Stayed in front of his grave and cried, when it was no longer necessary. When he was already free to go, to move on, to unlock the handcuffs that kept him attached to a mad man, body and soul. Strange things he did willingly, Sherlock still couldn't understand why.
Confused.
He felt that, too. And lost. For the first time in his life, he wasn't sure of what he should do. Of course he knew what he could do and what he wanted to do, but such things weren't an option for him.
What he wanted to do was to step away from the darkness he silently stood and reveal himself, his living self, to the broken man who stood in the light and sobbed alone, desperately waiting for a miracle, desperately wanting him to come back.
Such an extraordinary human being was his friend, John Watson. Not only friend, or best friend, but more. He was Sherlock's blogger. His flat mate, his partner in crime, his assistant, his companion, all that and more. Such an ordinary name, John. He could never imagine they would come to this. And that it would come to this.
John was the only one who knew – who asked – who understood Sherlock's nature. His heart. The man who had the mind of a scientist, and yet elected to be a detective, so as Mycroft usually said.
What could we deduce about his heart?
Sherlock Holmes had a great, dreamy heart. It was the same one from the boy who initially wanted to be a pirate, but grown. He was just an overgrown child. John saw right through that when no one could, when no one would. "Does he really have a heart?", they asked.
He did. The vital organ would remind him he did every time someone he cared was put in danger because of him. He cared, he did care. It would beat fast, erratically, almost being pulled out of his chest in panic.
It didn't really matter right now, because it was broken. What he feared the most has happened, and his heart was broken. The one he protected so much for all those decades, locking it far from the surface, so it would be safe. Broken, along with so many others hearts, the same ones he chose to protect. By destroying them.
John would get over it, he sincerely hoped, and so would the others. It just would take some time. The thought of it didn't quite cheer him up as it should. He was being erased from the world, piece to piece, until disappearing completely. Until becoming just a memory. Just another memory.
There were no English words that could describe what he was feeling and how he would feel for the rest of his miserable, possibly doomed, future life. And there were no English words as well that could ever describe how much he would miss all the precious things that were taken from him, right after jumping of St. Barts in that fatidic, terrible, tragic day. His best friend.
Miss is such a vague, unmeaning word, and it irritated Sherlock so badly. It was more than that, and Sherlock wanted to remember the name of that feeling. He knew there was another word, in another language, that described it… that feeling. But why couldn't he think straight at the moment?
He felt his face wet, and he knew he was crying.
And then he reminded.
Saudade.
He would miss John forever. With that thought, he left John in the cemetery, taking a final look at this face, tracing all the lines, remembering all the details he could, before moving on to his new destiny.
A far away place where they would understand what he felt. Maybe, if he was lucky, even teach him to to feel. Properly. Because, right now, he was not worthy of John. Or his feelings.
They would teach him, Sherlock Holmes, if time allowed them. Until the ache stops, until the pain's bearable.
Until it is time to come back.
A/N: There is no word in the world like Saudade. It is a unique, Galician-Portuguese word that has no immediate translation to English.
It describes a deep emotional state of nostalgic longing for an absent of something or someone that one loves. It often carries a repressed knowledge that the object of longing might never return.
Saudade was once described as "the love that remains" after someone is gone. Saudade is the recollection of feelings, experiences, places or events that once brought excitement, pleasure, well-being, which now triggers the senses and makes one live again. It can be described as an emptiness, like someone or something that should be there in a particular moment is missing, and the individual feels this absence. In Portuguese, 'tenho saudades tuas', translates as 'I have saudades of you' meaning 'I miss you', but carries a much stronger tone. In fact, one can have 'saudades' of someone whom one is with, but have some feeling of loss towards the past or the future.
In Brazil, the day of saudade is officially celebrated on January 30.
Portuguese is one of the most beautiful languages in the world. If you want to discover more about this and other Portuguese un-translatable words, please consider googling it. Maybe you'll understand more about yourself, things you feel and never knew.
(The research about Saudade can be found at Wikipedia).
A todos, um grande abraço.
Até a próxima.