Title: Relics of the Past
Author(s): Starluff
Rating: PG-13
Character(s)/Pairings: Watson
Summary: A person might keep some relics with him to remember the past. Some keep relics because that is all they have.
Warnings: Angst-fest, depression (I think), and details of Harry's drinking and death, though it isn't explicit.
Word Count: 1228
Author's Notes: I like the part with Harry but otherwise I feel it's a bit lacking. The ending was originally something different, but it made me depressed so I changed it to something a bit more cheerful. Hop you enjoy and tell me what you think!
The house is empty and quiet.
At the moment, there's not much for Watson to distract him from this detail. It's too late to go out for an aimless walk but too early to retire to bed. After sitting in his chair, staring at the fire for some time, he finally thinks of something and goes to do. He retrieves his revolver and cleaning kit and brings both down to the living room. He sets the kit down on the table and inspects his revolver closely. He examines it and he twists it and turns it until something within is satisfied. Guns require care, you know, and should be cleaned regularly. Of course, he had just cleaned it two days ago but it can't hurt to do it again. So Watson opens the cylinder and and begins to clean his revolver, his movements methodical and precise. His eyes have such an oddly intense gaze as he takes it all in.
He kept the revolver on his person wherever he went, in those early days when he first arrived in London. He could hardly keep himself from doing so. From the moment he began his journey home from Peshawar, he couldn't let the gun leave his sight for too long. There is a security in having a weapon close; a calming reassurance and a protective strength. It was also a constant fear. Preparing for something makes you expect it. Watson couldn't honestly say that he expected to be jumped in a dark alley or that he was expecting any kind of adversary. Yet in his pocket his faithful revolver stayed. His faithful, predictable revolver.
Revolvers were simple creations, after all, they only have two methods of use: pull the trigger or hit with the butt.
He's finished and now pushes everything back into place. Finally, the doctor sets the reassembled revolver down. It is clean and finished.
Watson moves onto the next item on his pile: a silver pocket watch.
So he takes a cloth and he rubs at it, rubbing away the tarnish. He is a bit different now, emotions war with each other on his face and his heart: anger, melancholy, regret. There is deep conflict associated with this pocket watch.
Watson glared at the body that had once borne the soul of his brother.
People began giving him strange looks as the seconds ticked by, but Watson could not have cared less. All he cared about was the face that had once had such a cheerful smile would never have one again.
He used to be a joker, you know. The life and soul of the party. Even though he generally got more attention than John, John could never bring himself to feel jealous. You couldn't feel ill towards Harry, cheerful Harry, joking Harry. Even now, staring at the lifeless carcass, John could still remember all those family gatherings and the like, where Harry would joke and laugh the loudest, where he always started the singing that everyone simply had to join in. John could just as easily remember the man with the cheerful outlook and bright future.
So why? Why the drinking? Why was that necessary? Did he really have that little self-control? Harry had had his whole life ahead of him and he threw it away with drinking and gambling. Sure, Harry had never been a very hard worker; he wanted to enjoy the simple things in life and not have to worry about trivial things, like money and housing. That was all he was, smiles and laughs and jokes and charisma and not much else otherwise. But that did not excuse his behavior! He should have been more awake, more aware of reality, should have figured something out...
Only when the priest arrived and began to read did Watson look away, slowly walk to the bench and sit down. He felt numb.
The tarnish is rubbed away long before his frustration is. But that, too, is soon gone, and Watson eventually puts down the pocket watch; it, free of tarnish; he, free of frustration and anger.
Only emptiness remains.
The pocket watch follows the gun and now there's a new item in the doctor's hand: a ring. A watery smile makes its way on his lips and he blinks in a determined manner as he starts to rub that as well. It had once adorned his finger but now it is usually carried on a chain around his neck, next to another, smaller ring.
Watson fumbled with the lock on the door for a good minute before he finally managed to get the darned thing open. He had been on his feet all day, caring for others, and he now wanted to care for himself. There was an armchair inside, calling his name, and his stomach sang in longing.
What he was aware of first was sound. A feminine voice called his name before she reached the room. She smiled as she entered, as if his presence meant the world to her. She walked up to him and lay a hand on his shoulder, telling him that dinner was ready and he should get up before it became cold. Watson nodded and he went to the dining room, where a piping hot meal awaited him.
A smile, a hot meal, and someone to talk to while he sat after dinner with a mug of tea. These were the small things that made him believe, truly feel, that the world was not such a cold and lonely place after all. There was a haven for him to return to day after day. There was someone who waited for him to return.
Small things does a great a comfort make.
The fond smile slips and, loosing its grip, falls completely from his face, leaving him to his emptiness once more. The two rings go back on the chain and around his neck, and the final item comes into view.
A silver cigarette case.
"Going home already, Watson?" Greg asked with surprise.
"Yes. I'm afraid my cheque book has been complaining some recently, and one must never ignore their cheque book," Watson replied with a regretful smile, rising out of his chair.
"Just one more game, old fellow, I insist!"
"No, no, I must-"
"Say, Watson, how about we play for that cigarette case you carry everywhere? It's a handsome case."
It was just a split second, gone so quick that Greg decided it was just a trick of the light or some such. But for that split second, there was a look of such intense anger and horror, as if Greg had seriously asked him to murder his best friend.
When it was gone, Watson's expression was polite once more, if a little cold. "Sorry, gentlemen, this case is off limits."
He can't. He tries but he just can't get his arms to move. His head bows slightly and he suddenly feels heavy. Watson is tired and longs for a sort of rest that sleep will not be able to grant him.
But he eventually sets the cigarette case down and he gets up, meaning to go to bed. Before he takes another step, though, there's knock on the door. Frowning, Watson goes to see who would be mad enough to knock on his at such a late time.
"Hello, sir, would you like to buy a book?"