In the midst of a silent night, aside from the occasional carriage below, a man lay listless. He should have been happy. But was he? A few more days, just a few more days. A few more days he would be married. Married to a beautiful woman. Yes. Beautiful. He would be married to a beautiful woman. A woman that loved him, and wanted him to love her, but also accepted it may be different…
This marriage would give him an excuse to drift. Did he want to drift? Drifting would help make the break. Drift, drift, drift, drift so far away. If he drifted, he could still be pulled back… Huh. He wanted to be pulled back, didn't he? Breaks normally hurt, but this one would put him in agony. This one would scar. A scar that could not be hidden. Always there, to be seen by him, to be seen by her. She understood, she understood better than even he. He thought he was losing a dear, dear friend. But was he really only losing a friend? He would make the break as clean as possible. But was it possible? There would always be little pieces hanging on, never really gone. Lingering memories could never be completely dismissed. They would always find a way to the surface. He may even lead them to the surface.
If they happened to pass each other in the street, could he restrain himself? Or would he jump right back in? What if he didn't even attempt to break it, only kept his distance. Let it dissolve. But the other would simply ignore the distance. The other would trek across it, and of course he would meet him in the middle, ignoring that he was the one that created it. There were many options, but only one was rational. He would be a married man. He would one day be a father. He must be responsible, not only to protect his physical self, but his mental self. His mind… His heart could not endure the pain.
To keep seeing him would be putting salt continuously in the wound. So, he must discard his detective… His detective. Though he would never admit it out loud, it was true in all regards. He kept the man in line, he was the reason the man carried on, brought himself back to reality and shook off the dust. They both knew this. They would never admit it. He wanted so badly to confront the detective, shove the disregarded clues in his face, and make him see the truth. To make himself see the truth.
He had fought endlessly. He still would have to. Marriage wouldn't change that. No, no it wouldn't. It may even make things worse. To be away from that man, to know he wasn't within shouting distance… Not seeing him every day. Not hearing him every day. To be away. Away from the only thing he really and truly loved. Wait… Loved? Very well, he supposed he loved him. But what kind of love was still indefinite. He could never admit at what level he loved.
Instead of being there he would be living a life meant for another, something that could never belong to him because he didn't want it. He wanted something else. Something he couldn't admit. Something he didn't want to admit. Something everyone else could see besides him. Even his fiancé could see, but didn't want to confront him. He only saw a fog, with minor details revealing themselves. Of course the other man was blind as well. The other man… The other man must be in pain as well. Losing a friend… is never easy. No… Neither is losing love. Neither could do it. Neither could whisper the truth. He supposed they both knew. But it was something different to say it out loud.
Looking into those brown eyes showed his subconscious the truth, and later, his conscious. But he never understood. Not until he was actually confronted with the possibility of losing him. It was just something that was there, incomprehensive, but there. And now, with the fact he would lose the detective as clear as day, he knew why he had such difficulty leaving.
As Watson looked back, lying silently, the pieces fell together. He very simply loved Holmes. Always would, never wouldn't. Would he address it? No. He was getting married to Mary. How lovely. And Holmes would be living alone, in their home- always their home- until he met a girl of his fancy. Watson would forget, or attempt to forget. He may always be lost, but he would try and hide his feelings, and in some desperate effort, try and replace Holmes in his mind with Mary. Mary this. Mary that. Forget Holmes did this. Forget Holmes did that. Avoid Holmes. Never mention Holmes. Watson could do that. He could devote himself, leaving no room but a corner for memories. But those memories would fight, oh, they would fight. They already were. It wasn't all that simple, just to forget. Watson would live with Mary, but would never really live. A piece of him would always be missing. A crucial part. So crucial. A part of him would always be empty. Gone.
He knew life wouldn't stop just because he would be missing, but things would never be the same. Even if he saw Homes every day, Holmes himself would be still be missing from his life. There was no changing it.
How he wouldn't wish to go back in time. He would have done it so much different. Or would he? He valued the time he had spent with Holmes- he wouldn't change a bit of it. But Mary… She helped him realize come to a realization, but at a great price. If he was given the choice, he would have chose to never met Mary, and figure it out all on his own. But it was too late. It was too late…