Hello everyone!
It's been a while since I've uploaded anything here but now I'm back. This one shot was written three years ago in German, but I've only recently found enough time to translate it. I really hope you like it and I'd like to apologize for any grammatical mistakes. I'm not a native speaker but I want to improve, so please let me know if you liked it. I'm also on Tumblr, so if you don't like writing comments here, you can always message me there:
The Guardian
Baker Street.
If I were in a position to ask you, I would have done so by now, but you'll never be able to hear my voice.
At least not as long as you're alive.
Why did you return to London?
I thought we'd made a compromise back then when you promised yourself and me to never ever return to the city which is drowning in rain, surrounded by the dusty haze of unspoken secrets.
It was June, I remember that very well. You took a cab from Heathrow to Kensington and you slammed the cab door in my face. I know you since 36 years, Sherlock, and in all this time, I should have learned that you don't waste any thoughts on etiquette and politeness. Nonetheless, I admit I was more than disappointed.
Maybe it was the hurt, I don't remember that part since I tried to forget that day with use of all the powers I was given.
You broke the bond we once formed in silent agreement.
We'll never come back.
'Back' doesn't exist anymore.
Everything that's left is 'future'.
I can't bring myself to forget the feeling of betrayal.
I watched you carrying all the boxes into the roomy flat and there was nothing I wouldn't have done to be able to lay my arms around you. I wanted to reassure you that I wouldn't let them hurt you again, but I reckon you would have pushed me away, throwing a disgusted look at me and you would have continued to carry on as if you didn't care how other people handled your feelings.
And above all that, you don't even know I exist.
Yes, I must admit that I used to hope you'd eventually find somebody who accepts you the way you are. Somebody who tolerates your unusual habits, who learns to love them over time, who eventually doesn't know how to live without them.
Somebody like me.
I had 36 years to get to know you, Sherlock. To be accurate, it's actually 36 years, six months, four weeks, three days, seventeen hours, eight minutes and fifty-four seconds. One should think that's plenty of time to get to know a human being, to get to know them far better than the pocket of my coat, but even if I owned a coat or any cloth at all, you'd still be able to surprise me.
You thought you were alone when they all left, one after the other as if someone had send them to cause you pain, because every single one of them threw things at you that you don't deserve. They looked into your motionless face, your crystal clear eyes glowing like Polaroid pictures in a starry winter night, and they said things that caused the glowing to fade until it turned into a faint flicker.
You think you're alone, but I was always right there beside you when one flatmate left after the other, and it was always me who stayed.
You thought you were alone when your heart was broken for the very first time, but mine shattered into thousands of pieces and, unlike yours, it cannot be put together again.
You thought you were alone when the shadows reached for you with their ashen hands, but they also reached for me, nearly turning it into an impossibility to rescue you from their grip.
I must admit I'd given up hope when he stepped into your life: Dr John Hamish Watson.
He appeared out of thin air like a surreal ghost, the better half of your soul. He threw a shining light at you which, for the first time, showed not only me, but the entire world, how breath-taking your own light can be.
It took me a long time to realise it was blinding me.
The day he moved in with you was a happy one.
One of the very few in your life that I would put in that category.
How I know that?
To be honest, I can only assume what must have gone through your head that bright January morning. But these assumptions are based on observations and they lead to the only possible conclusion. The light, which had been stolen from you a long time ago, had returned.
I hardly ever saw you that euphoric, that optimistic.
Dr Watson's blog was very amusing to read because he nailed your behaviour to the last detail.
Thankfully, you left the website open so I was able to steal a quick glance at his literary outbreaks, and I cannot deny that I liked what I read. For the very first time, somebody seemed to be amazed by you, seemed to like you, and more importantly – he accepted you.
Maybe that's the reason why I cannot bring myself to call him by his first name because he's the first to break through your carefully built barriers and I don't trust him enough to let him into mine as well.
Dr Watson is loyal.
I could have told you that after the very first second he entered the room, but you wouldn't have listened to me.
When did you ever?
And then he destroyed everything.
Everything we've worked for, for 36 years.
Everything I held most dear.
Everything that was what made you, me, us.
He saved your life.
I don't remember what I felt when the bullet fired right through me as I pressed my hand on your mouth to prevent it from swallowing the deathly pill.
I couldn't have known that you'd been cleverer than me, that it would have been the right one.
I couldn't have known that I'd already been replaced.
I couldn't have known anything of that because I don't count.
That evening, something changed between the two of you and I still don't know what it was, but when you looked at each other, the blue lights dancing in glimmering eyes, I was certain I'd lost you forevermore.
"We hated him."
Sebastian didn't lie when he said that, because I'd been there when they were throwing poisonous looks at you, stabbing you from the other side of the cafeteria with iron ignorance, and I regret having hoped that one simple sentence could have been enough to change John's opinion of you.
Of course, four words weren't enough.
John.
John.
When did I decide to call him by his first name? He captured me just like he'd captured you, and within the deepest depths of my heart, I still hate him for that.
It's my task, Sherlock, to protect you and I will always do that as good as I can, but it doesn't keep me from wishing death upon another human being.
When Shan intended to kill you that night, I realised for the first time how important my task had become over the years, and how defining it could be. My heart was close to giving up when Shan's henchmen strangled you and I was too late. Every time, luck was faster than I and the thought of losing you had become so impossible to bear that the image of your struggling body in front of my eyes paralysed me.
I must have blacked out.
You've been playing for a lifetime now, Sherlock, and your stakes had never been low.
How often did you risk your life to prove your cleverness?
It's ludicrous because I'm your guardian angel, but I rather count the days I spent by your side than all the times you came close to death.
This game wasn't supposed to be any different than all the ones before, but I knew right from the start that you'd need me – more than ever.
Should I be ashamed of having looked forward to it?
Compared to what happened at the pool, the fight with the Golem was child's play – just like out of a textbook. I didn't even have enough time to doubt whether I'd be able to save you this time.
When John stepped out of the changing rooms, a vest of Semtex strapped to his body, your eyes weren't the only ones that widened, because it wasn't your best – only – friend standing on the brink of life and death that I was seeing.
I saw myself.
It felt like I'd been the one strapped to explosives and in that moment, I realised that if you were to lose John that night, I would be ripped from your side as well.
Even if they allowed me to continue my duty, there was nothing I could have done after John's death to save you.
You were playing once more, and the stakes were too high.
It was me and I was about to lose you forevermore.
The 28th of March was undoubtedly one of the busiest working days of my existence and that – when considering that my job is to keep you alive – is very telling!
The Woman.
I hated her.
Since the first time she entered the picture, she repelled me more than anything because suddenly, the earth wasn't going around the sun anymore (you've never accepted that, anyway).
Suddenly there was a new name for the centre of the universe and that name was Irene Adler.
It hadn't been easy for me to accept John as the main part of your life but other than Miss Adler, he wasn't on the dark side.
When I saw her for the first time, I looked right through her and it surprised me even more that you weren't able to do the same.
Where was the brilliant Sherlock Holmes, the only Consulting Detective in the world, when he was needed?
I must say I was deeply disappointed when I realised that you were so easily distracted by such a textbook-like performance. Nonetheless, it was good to know that I wasn't alone with my opinion, because John was just as much enthralled by her as me.
I liked him better after that, I must admit.
The Hounds of Baskerville.
From my point of view, it was the most boring case you've ever taken on because I was hardly needed. Everything there is to say is that you proved once more how cold and hurting you can be and that Hollywood lost a fine actor when you became a master in crime solving.
"I don't have friends."
No, Sherlock.
You've probably never had.
But you've got someone who protects you, who watches out for you – just like it should be.
What you said made me think about our life when there hadn't existed a 'My friend, John Watson' and when there hadn't been a 'We're not…' in the daily contiguity of 'Things that must be said'.
A melancholic smile caught me off guard when I flashed back to the nights we spent in front of the fireplace when you read me stories of lost adventures without even being aware of me listening to your voice. Evenings I spent watching the fire dancing in your eyes, counting the chromatic spectrum on the crystal clear iris.
French, German, I learned all of that because of you.
And so much more.
And then there was the downfall.
The Fall.
Do I really have to tell you what I felt back then?
Let me describe it like this:
It was like falling thousands of kilometres without ever reaching the ground, as if my body was bursting under the insufferable pressure of guilt and the nothing-left-to-do. It was like watching my world fall apart because this time, it wasn't your guardian who left. Your angel.
This time, it was you.
I caught you in my secure arms of confidence and I put my hand on your heart when he called your name.
"Sherlock … God, no … no …"
If I hadn't felt the strong beating beneath my shaking hands… I don't know what I would have done.
There are plenty of people in this world who claim that you don't have a heart but that day, you proved once more how wrong people can be.
How many idiots there are.
I followed you.
Through three dark years.
I dried the tears you never cried.
Stronger than ever, I shielded you from the bullets that would have ripped your heart in two.
I fought by your side, day after day, but I wasn't the same I'd been before.
You left John as a broken man and you never knew that you broke me as well.
And now, we're standing here, side by side, right in the middle of another now or never.
There's no 'back' anymore, at least you promised me once there wasn't. All that's left is 'future'.
I'm your guardian angel.
I'm the one you'll never see because nobody will ever lay their eyes on me.
Invisible is what I am, condemned to keep your heart beating, to keep watching how you're giving it to someone else.
Because I'm invisible.
I don't count.
Not as long as you're alive.
You're staring at the door and I can see the longing in your eyes. You missed him and the selfish part of me keeps whispering in my ear that you, therefore, missed me too, but who am I kidding?
You're right in front of me; your face only inches away, but you can't see me. You're still staring at the dark wooden door, I can hear your heart beating, and I feel it in the air, take it in with all my senses.
"Sherlock," I whisper and my hand wanders to your cheek. "I tried."
I don't know why I can't bring my voice to something stronger than a whisper because you taught me how to handle feelings.
"I'm so sorry, Sherlock."
The kiss to your cheek barely deserves to be called that, but I enjoy the feeling of your smooth skin beneath my lips nonetheless.
"Goodbye."
And with that, I force to let you go, to set your heart free and I fade into the shadows where nobody can see my tears.
Just another thing I've learned from you.
I wanted to tell you how much I owe you, how grateful I am for you saving me, but John has already entered the flat.
I don't remember the words you speak, the punches that probably hit you. I'm much too busy to stare raptly at your face, wondering why it had to be you of all people who'd be the one to destroy me.
Ghosts don't have hearts.
Angels cannot love.
I shouldn't be feeling that way, shouldn't feel the pain but it's so omnipresent that it clouds my thoughts.
Angels cannot love.
Maybe I'm not an angel?
Maybe I'm only on their side?
I don't know who I am, but I know that I do feel and I know that I do love. Probably I always did, but I've never been aware of it and the sudden cognition is hitting me like a punch to my stomach, extinguishing the pain radiating from my heart.
I'm happy, Sherlock.
Despite the goodbye, I'm happy.
I think I finally know why you returned to London.
Maybe you've always known that your heart belongs here. To the guardian angel I could have never been.
In the end, you're lost in an embracement and I can see the ghost of a smile on your face.
It's good to know you're happy too.
"Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes."
And just like that, my task is over, because I saved you.
I took care of your life and your happiness.
What I feel doesn't count because I'm invisible, a guardian angel, a soulless ghost.
I saved you, Sherlock.
Now, it's up to John to keep your heart save.
The moment your lips meet and your fingers intertwine, looking for something to hold onto, my sight fades and endless darkness covers me as I'm bursting into millions of dancing pieces of dust.
Maybe one day, Sherlock Holmes, we will meet again.