When the Heartache Ends
Holmes stood in Watson's doorway, watching the still form of his dear Boswell darkly silhouetted in the faint light of the window. He hadn't moved in quite sometime, his arms folded across his chest, his eyes fixed on something beyond the window, beyond London. This kind of thing hadn't happened before and Holmes wasn't quite sure how to go about fixing it.
Watson could still hear the mother's shrill cry as her son stepped in front of the carriage. He could still hear the awful thudding sound of wheels rolling over a body and the frightened whinnying of the horses. It was beyond lucky for a doctor to have been there and Watson had worked as quickly as possible. He did everything in his power but it was no use. The boy was crushed, mangled beyond repair. The image was burned into his mind of the mother cradling the broken body of her son against her chest and wailing; the fervent, hysterical apologies of the cab driver and he had stood frozen, nothing more he could do. He felt the hot tears welling in his eyes and did nothing to stop them.
Sherlock approached quietly, hesitating and wondering if he should say something. He stood at Watson's back and noticed a light tremble shake the doctor's shoulders and something in Holmes's chest ached. He reached forward then and wrapped his arms around him. Watson gave a slight jump but slowly relaxed into the embrace, his arms lowering to his sides.
"You did everything you could do," Holmes consoled, his voice taking on a soft tone he had never heard before, "You mustn't blame yourself."
He pressed his cheek into Watson's back, his hands gently gripping the fabric of the doctor's waistcoat, "You're still the finest doctor I've ever met. No one could do any better."
John's body gave a shudder as he let the tears run freely down his cheeks. His hand found Holmes's wrist and gripped it tightly, desperate for his friend's reassurance. Somehow, just feeling his weight against him, his steady warmth fighting off the chill of the night, he felt that everything would be okay.
Sherlock held him and let him cry, never once shrinking back or relinquishing his arms that wound themselves protectively around Watson's middle. Everything would be alright.
And if I stand here silent
I almost start to feel you fading in
Telling me hold on
'Cause it's gonna be alright
Why don't you tell me again?
How you'll still be there when the heartache ends
Well it's alright, why don't you tell me my friend,
How you'll still be there when the heartache ends
How you'll still be there when the heartache ends…
Say you'll be with me when the heartache ends.