Fear
The fear was always present. At the forefront of his mind in all things. That he would be lost, that he would once again be flung onto that ridge at Reichenbach, cold, alone and bleeding. That once again that tumult of emotions would overtake his mind and he would be a slave to love, tears and regret.
He had worked long and hard to build himself back up from that day. When he watched Watson go, for what he assumed would be the last time in this life, all the feelings that accompanied that sight beat at him in his nightmares. But he would never tell anyone of what he suffered; he listened to others day in and day out, their moaning and whinging he could just about stand but what was their suffering compared to his own?
Not a soul in the world, not even Watson knew all he had been through. He knew the world for what it was; a dark, forbidding place full of fear and without a God. There was nothing to be gained from such thoughts, he knew that and yet they seemed to pour over him like waves. He felt himself close to tears almost every hour of every day and yet they were never permitted to shed. He would gaze at Watson and fear would fill his heart. This, he knew was why he had never permitted himself to feel anything, the fear was too great. The constant thought of ill befalling someone he cared for was overwhelming and it threatened to drive him mad.
Perhaps that is why he worked so tirelessly to care for others, to solve in their lives what he could never hope to in his own. To bring back to them the people they loved, to bring justice to those who had suffered. In his darker moments he told himself it was just something to do, it was a role that increased his father's disapproval of his youngest son and made his brother ever more the favourite, it was a way of punishing himself. He knew of the storm it would have created in that quiet little country village, that the Squire's son had taken himself off to London to set up private practice as a detective! He could imagine the gossip and the chatter, the embarrassment his father would feel, the anger that would well up inside him, how he would once again blame Sherlock for his mother's death and the ruin of his life since that fateful day. The one chink in his armour – his mother's death. He had always been told it was his fault, that if he hadn't been born then she would have lived. There was no argument against this, it was true. He knew she had died giving birth to him and he regretted being born as a consequence; he regretted it and so did every member of his family. For Violet was sunshine where Sherlock was darkness. And who would settle for darkness over sunshine?
He had done well but that would not have mattered to that quiet little Yorkshire hamlet, the deed had been done. He had abandoned his birth right for a trade, and not a well known trade at that, not like Master Mycroft, who had entered the government like any respectable son. Of course it was left to Sherlock to inherit what his brother did not want. But why should he? Why should he also not have a job? That was, alas, not how these things were done. He could never return to the place of his birth and this filled him with sorrow, for all his miserable childhood he still longed for the rolling Yorkshire moors and the freedom one could only gain from the wilderness. Not that he disliked London, far from it. It fed him and he breathed in its peculiar cosmopolitan atmosphere. His life, it was true, was more restrained, more dictated by society, but he had lived here as he had never lived. He had met wondrous and wonderful people, obviously he would never say this to their face, but here in his subconscious he could admit that the people in his life were appreciated if not cherished.
These dark, foreboding thoughts were what made him, he would always be on that brink of madness. That uncontrollable element of him that made him brilliant but kept him alone. It scared other, he had discovered this to his cost. As a young man he had met a girl. She was beautiful, to his eyes at least, and intelligent and they spent many an hour together, but his mania had always been there, ready to destroy whatever happiness he thought he had made for himself and she could not cope with it. Not that he could blame her, it was all he could do to keep hold of that side of him. She had left him and he had wept. He swore never again to be so hurt and the only way he knew how was to make himself hard, to let no one in. No woman anyway.
Not that he ever had, Watson had made a fuss over the Adler woman but she was merely captivating, a passing whim that had done just that – passed. He did not miss her or wonder about her, she did not cause him passing pain, she was a problem nothing more. Watson however, he was a different kettle of fish entirely. Watson had been a surprise. He had never had a friend, not one that stayed beyond the first argument, the first glimpse of that darkness he concealed. But Watson? He had stayed in spite of it, perhaps even because of it and Holmes could believe he was worthy of such feelings. It was a humbling experience.
He could feel the dawn sunshine on his face and he stirred. The air was thick with dew and he could feel it collecting on his eyelashes, he blinked a few times to clear it. Sighing he raised himself from the bench and smiled sadly. England. The sun rose on a beautiful English day and he felt glad to be a part of it. He had never felt this way in London. To see the real England you must keep away from London he had always thought. He turned from the bench and began his solitary way home, nodding occasionally to the men in the fields or the women on their way to market. He felt short of breath suddenly as he gazed on this very English scene, a scene that may soon be over. He hung his head and continued to walk, that dark melancholia settling on his soul, but this time it was not childish longing or an adolescent broken heart, it was the prospect of war and losing more than his own sanity.
He reached his gate and paused to gaze out toward the sea, the sun sparkled and a breeze rushed up from his garden containing scents of honey and flowers. He closed his eyes and breathed it in, when he opened them his housekeeper, Martha was waving at him from the French windows, feigning a smile, he waved back while a single tear rolled down his cheek.