John Watson stood staring blankly at the door where, moments ago, his wife, Mary had just asked him to make an impossible decision.
"I'm sorry, John, but it's either him or me."
With that, she had turned and left the room without another word. Watson felt angry. How could she ask him to make such a decision? Despite his anger, Watson could understand her reasoning behind it. It was true that when he was in the company of Holmes he did tend to end up wounded. He knew that if the tables were turned and Mary was the one being badly injured at least three or four times a year, he would be worried sick, too.
But how could he choose?
Sherlock Holmes was his best friend. He gave his life purpose and excitement. He challenged him to the very edge of his intellectual ability.
But he had made vows to his wife. He loved her, and he wanted to be with her.
Watson finally tore his gaze away from the door and turned to Holmes. He was still sitting in the same position that he was when Mary entered the room, propped up on his elbows on the bed.
He didn't look at Watson. He just slipped out of the bed and pulled on a shirt before heading over to his usual armchair.
"Holmes," he said tentatively.
"There's nothing to say, my dear fellow," he said, still not meeting Watson's gaze. "I think it's very clear what your decision is going to be." He settled down in his armchair, staring out of the window with his fingertips pressed together, as though he were deep in thought.
"Mary is my wife," Watson said. It hurt him so much to have to make this decision, but Holmes was right, his choice was clear.
"Yes, yes, quite right," Holmes said, almost dismissively.
"I have to go," Watson said. He felt as though he was trying to convince himself of that fact as much as Holmes.
Holmes said nothing, but picked up his violin which was propped up against the side of the chair and started plucking absent-mindedly at the strings.
"Holmes, please," he said. He wasn't sure what he wanted to say to his old friend. They had been an incredible team for nearly a decade and now, all of a sudden, he was having to say his final goodbyes. Even after all those years together, all the shared experiences and memories, the heartache, the terror, the excitement, Watson had no idea what to say. There was too much to say and not any time to say it.
Holmes still didn't look up, he just leant down and picked up his bow and began to play his violin, facing the window. Watson knew Holmes had nothing to say to him. He could almost feel the hurt and the pain coming off of Holmes in waves, but the inexpressive detective would never voice such feelings.
Watson didn't want their partnership end this way.
"Holmes," he said, more firmly. But Holmes, stubborn as ever, remained silent.
"Sherlock," Watson said, this time the pain in his voice was quite audible. Holmes stopped playing his violin for a moment on hearing his first name, but didn't turn around to face his companion.
A few painful, silent seconds passed by, the air thick with things left unspoken. Watson felt as though a hole had been ripped in his chest. The anguish he felt from having to give up his life with Holmes burned like a raw wound.
Finally, Holmes resumed the playing of his violin. There was nothing left for him to say.
Watson picked up his shoes from beside the bed and headed for the door. He took a long last look at his best friend; without a doubt the most brilliant man he had ever met, and the most loyal companion. His hands shook a little as he reached out for the door handle.
"Goodbye Holmes," Watson said, as he pulled the door closed behind him.
Holmes heard the click of his door closing; one little click that signified the end of a decade of friendship. He put his violin down, no longer needing to use it as a shield between himself and the doctor.
As he sat down, his mind raced through so many emotions he could barely keep up. Sadness, anger, jealousy, hurt, grief. He resented his emotions. He always did his best to ignore them. Emotions cloud one's judgement. They are inconvenient obstacles in the way of clear thinking. Yet Watson always had a way of bringing out the best and worst feeling in him.
Watson. His closest friend, his faithful companion... Holmes felt the now increasingly familiar tightness in his chest as the feelings of grief and loss burned within him.
He did his best to put his feelings to one side – to compartmentalise them – but to no avail. So he turned to the only other way he knew of to dull the ache of his damned emotions. He reached out to the cabinet beside him and picked up a bottle of brandy.
"Cheers," he muttered to the empty room.
A/N Thank you so much for reading - the next chapter will be up very soon. Please let me know what you think of the story so far.