He was acting strange. Not his normal, inhuman and blank mask strange, but truly weird. It was a frightening prospect, really, because I do not know how I will handle it if he becomes any more difficult than before.
The case was finished and this was usually the point were the illogical and terrifyingly brilliant detective switches places slightly socially awkward man. But here he was, still in terrifyingly brilliant detective mode.
"The case is over Holmes, let it go" I hear myself say, almost as a sigh. Maybe he will tell me what was going on in that organized mess that is his mind this time.
Dark eyes flicker over to me, holding my gaze. I resist the urge to fidget like a young child, holding my oldest friend's intense gaze unwaveringly.
"I know Watson" he replied, his tone patronizing. I gave a light smirk. Did he really think I was that stupid? It was an old trick; one of his favourites, getting me off track by some slyly inserted comment made to irritate me.
"Stop thinking about it" I commanded calmly, letting the small barb slide.
"I'm not" he replied. I held my smirk mirthfully, knowing he knew just as well as I did how much he sounded like a petulant child.
I raised an eyebrow before turning my eyes outside the glass pane window, onto the bustling street below. I felt his eyes on me but I purposefully ignored the feeling, focusing rather on the hectic life outside. If he insists on acting like a child and sweeping whatever was going on inside that brain of his under the metaphorical rug, then he will receive no sympathy from me.
It was an illogical thought, but somehow the small vengeance settled my curiosity and I settled down into the comfy leather of my seat, intent on simply relaxing for once. I have had enough chasing mad men down for one day, and I wasn't planning on spending any more time on them, even should Holmes fall into said mad men category. Besides, the headlines on today's newspaper had caught my eye.
I'm not sure how long the two of us sat there, me reading the paper and Holmes with his pipe content to merely watching the people below out the window.
It was I strange habit of his, I thought absently as I briefed over an article of the golden jubilee of Queen Victoria. While the act of people watching itself wasn't a strange habit and many found it fascinating, I knew it wasn't because the bustle of people below fascinated him, but because he could not understand. It was a sad thought and I found myself once again torn between pity for his struggle to understand normal human interactions that most were simply born with and admiration for rising above average standards coupled with his innate intelligence.
The silence was heavy, so I waited.
"It just doesn't add up" a voice commented across the table. I glanced upwards from my bowl, spoon raised.
He continued without my prodding, almost as if he were conversing with himself. I knew better. "She had everything. Money, power, beauty." The case.
I dipped my spoon into the hot broth once more. Indeed, the woman lived a life most of us common folk only could dream of. Life on the outside seemed to treat her well.
"Folk are always deeper than they first appear" I chided, knowing he knew that fact very well. There were always background stories, histories that ran further than images could ever go. Holmes understood and had seen enough to know how they affect people's present, so I could not follow his line of thought.
"She had everything" he repeated, picking the silver butter knife and digging its tip into the mahogany wood of the table. I winced, seeing a hole begin to form under his absentminded ministrations. Why he felt he must always choose my new, expensive furniture as the object of destruction to release his pent up thoughts, I would never know. "Why would she take her own when things were going so well?"
I frowned, swallowing my mouthful of broth and venison. I thought he understood. It was rather obvious, but Holmes tended to look straight past the obvious, sometimes even conquering up imaginary solutions because the real one seemed way to probable.
"Love" I stated. The woman had lost her husband to greed, and had taken a knife to the gut in her own self-loathing. Tragic story, but one I unfortunately hear much too often.
My friend went silent. I knew he understood, so I waited. It didn't matter that the reason was clear to him, but something was going on in his head that I couldn't read and he was just beginning to decipher.
"Happiness is a myth" he stated after a couple minutes of easy silence. It was always easy, always comfortable. I love that.
I thought about his statement. It was a depressing thought, but the truths about life are rarely inspiring. A myth means fake, made up, impossible, something that is simply just not within the ability of mere mortals.
"I disagree," I responded. He glanced at me, eyes set. He really believed this. My heart sank like a stone in my stomach, clenching as if a wire had wrapped around it tightly, preventing it from beating any longer. It hurt.
"Oh?" he challenged.
"Just because you have a couple cases where people who have supposedly everything don't reach a happy ending does not mean that it is a myth" I retorted. It was something I strongly believed, and no man, not even one as convincing as Holmes could make me think any different. Was it not, then the human race would have died out long ago, extinguished like a flame doused with water, never able to burn bright enough to hold itself aflame with such a wave of opposition. Happiness is just as key to survival as water or nourishment.
Holmes eyes took on a glint that I recognized, and I heaved an internal sigh at the set look. It was a challenge, one that he would not give up until I either proved him wrong or concede defeat. "I am not saying that there was nothing, no moments where maybe they felt a flicker of something akin to joy. But it was diluted, like this cursed ale you gave me; watered down."
I let the corner of my lips quirk upwards in a small smirk. So he noticed.
"I am talking about a happiness that is pure, uncontaminated with anything. When there was no future or past, just people living in the now and rejoicing in it."
"Can there not be happiness in looking forwards to the future?" I inquired.
Holmes closed his eyes, as if trying to block of the world and the million questions it posed. "You don't understand," he sighed out like a man exhausted.
I resisted the urge to frown, instead calling on my endless patience, hoping it would hold through for me. "Then explain."
There was a long pause were I thought he had given up. I pushed aside my disappointment and looked away, staring back down at my bowl of stew that no longer seemed as enticing as it did moments ago.
"There doesn't need to be anticipation for the future. There didn't need to be fond remembrance of the past. When all the dependence of someone's happiness flowed from the present, needing no other help to remain pure and unadulterated."
I looked up to search his face once more, slightly surprised he had continued. This was dangerous territory. He seemed so lost, so confused, and it made my heart ache to see such an expression on a man I –everyone, really- considered a genius. These brief glimpses of his mind, of how truly flummoxed he was when it came to human emotions irrationally terrified me, and I couldn't seem to shake the chills that the look gave me.
"It is a rare thing," I allowed. "Nonetheless, rarity doesn't mean it doesn't exist."
Holmes lifted his eyes to mine as if finally becoming interested in the conversation. "Prove it," he stated, his eyes challenging.
I blinked slowly, trying to pull in all my thoughts in order to form a coherent retort, but it was a futile endeavour. As it was, my companion had already begun again, explaining his thoughts as was the routine.
"Tell me a period of your life when you were honest to god happy. Prove to me that there was a time during your years when nothing made you down or upset." His hair was sticking up in all directions, as if he had ran an agitated hand through it when I was not aware, but I doubted it. It was a nervous gesture that he simply did not know how to make.
Consequently, I had the urge the was slowly growing stronger, rising up from my gut to push my chair back, walk around the table and run my own fingers through his unruly chocolate locks. To calm him, to help him understand, to do anything.
I let a sad smile spread across my face as I easily held his challenging gaze. He always needed to take things to the extreme, to push the normally well known limits until the lines were blurred, warped and twisted just enough that they were unrecognizable, a mock copy of the original.
"Happiness is not perfection, it still includes the downs, the times when one is upset."
Holmes frowned. "The definition of happiness is the sense of pleasure or contentment. It is the absence of sorrow and negative sentiments."
My heart clenched at the thought. Has this been what he has believed through the course of his life? I shook my head in a negative. "It isn't a textbook definition, it is a human emotion and much more complicated than any words in any dictionary could ever describe." I looked upwards at the ceiling, noting the numerous burn marks from the many failed experiments the man across from me had attempted, searching for the correct words that could to some degree explain my thoughts to my companion.
"It is not perfection, or the absence of negative feelings. It is the acceptance of the imperfection and rejoicing of the ups." My voice was firm and assured, not to be swayed from my view. "It is tolerance and acknowledgement of the imperfections, and the ability to remember and treasure those things we personally find perfect."
I let out a breath, suddenly feeling drained. It was by no means a speech, or the longest of our often heated discussions, but it was by far one of the most exhausting. I was unsure of why but I felt all the fight leave me in that sigh, escaping my body like my breath, trickling out my lips until my lungs burned and I breathed in once more, bringing my body nothing but oxygen.
I was a man drowning on dry land, and my next thought was spoken quietly, unconsciously mimicking the very thought running through my head. "It is a gift that many great men search for and only a few truly wise find."
The room fell silent once more, broken only by the soft chiming of our spoons gently clicking against the ceramic bowls. I knew he was thinking over what I said and I felt a strange sense of satisfaction that he valued my option as much as he did. Of course, I had no idea what he actually thought of it or if he still disagreed, but the knowledge that he took the time to analyze and dissect my words left me with a sense of contentment, tinged with fear.
What would he find in them? What could he see from my words, how big was hole that I had left for him to pear into my mind? The question was not if there was a window, because there was no doubt that there was and Holmes would find it. The question was if he would look through.
I was unsure of how long the two of us sat there, across from each other at the table but having so much distance separating us. I had finished my meal and had reclined comfortably against the wooden chair, a million thoughts running through my mind but none of the decipherable.
His voice startled me when he spoke, so sudden it was. "I understand." The words were rough and rasped, but clear in their meaning.
This time it was my eyes that sought for his, holding them as I tried to see it all the while not knowing what I was searching for. "You believe that it does exist?" I asked, not having the will to voice what 'it' was. The word was so simple, but it held so much power and I simply didn't have the energy to harness the will to wield that power.
He said nothing in response, but his eyes burned with an intensity that I had never known. I didn't know what prompted me, maybe I had pissed off someone in my last life, or there was some sort of poison that loosens the inhibitions that was slipped into my food before hand, but the words that I hadn't wished to say were already forming on my lips. "Why? When did you feel it?" I stared at him, my eyes hard and strangely desperate. His lips thinned as if he was displeased with my question, as if it was something he himself didn't want to hear voiced aloud.
I clenched my jaw, unsure of why I needed to know so badly but knowing that that strange ache in my chest would only worsen should I not. "I know you Holmes, so don't tell me I was the one who convinced you. You experienced it, or else I know you wouldn't believe me. When were you honestly happy?" My words were spoken with the certainty only I could say, and as quickly as my will had left me, it returned, surging up until I found it within myself once again to voice the word. It was both an honour and a burden to be the one who knew him possibly better than himself, and the knowledge gave me the strength to push forwards.
His glare was strangely irritated, but somewhere deep I detected a sliver of panic. His response was bit out, but the impact was not lessened by the lack of explanation for once. "Now."
My breath left me in a huff, and suddenly, we were just a little farther than before.
A/N. I don't really write Holmes and Watson. Or even dabble in Sherlock Holmes fanfiction. And by don't really, I mean at all, so I beg you to excuse the valid outrage when you read this and think, 'that stupid writer, his eye's are black not brown, she doesn't belong here.' or something like that. It's because I don't belong here.
But alas, I dedicated this little fic to my dearest friend, Miss Moore, who is turning sixteen today. A birthday shout out to her, and her absolute adoration for this couple. I love you, pretty lady, don't forget it.