Prompt: Somber observations on a cold day in the country, from TemporarilyAbaft

A/N I'm not sure how this turned out - it's usually a struggle for me not to do a ton of introspection in my fics, but I don't usually write Holmes POV and I never write fic set during the Hiatus. I really hope I got him in character. It's kind of sad, just fyi. Also really philosophical.


March 15, 1893

I write this sitting on a rock some distance from the Head Lama's palace. It is dreadfully cold, as I was warned it would be in Tibet, but I find the cold focuses my thoughts.

I have been in conversation with the Head Lama for several days now. No doubt my brother will be fascinated to hear of my report, as few Europeans have ever journeyed here. This is not that report. I am not a storyteller as Watson is, but I know my own thoughts and have had reason these last few days to sort through them.

The Head Lama was most kind in sharing his wisdom with me, and while I am not the type to adhere strictly to any belief system, I dutifully listened, as any increase in our knowledge of this land will assist our trade endeavors here. Or so Mycroft tells me. I must confess that the whole business holds very little interest to me, but Mycroft has sworn more than once to cut off my financial support if I did not make myself useful. So I will write what the Lama told me here so I do not forget it.

"The Buddha said that life is suffering. Suffering because of our desires, to possess things, or for them to fit into what we want them to be," the Lama told me as we strolled through the palace. His interpreter, a young acolyte who had traveled to London before taking his vows, trailed behind us. I frowned; my wants were few and yet I hardly ever deemed myself content.

"You disagree?" he asked, seeing my expression.

"I want little," I explained, thinking of my threadbare dressing gowns and small living quarters in London.

"Do you truly?" I thought harder, remembering months going by without any case of interest. Perhaps what I truly wanted was not material possessions.

"I want always to be occupied," I finally said. "Problems of the mind, or some subject I deem useful to learn."

"Expanding knowledge is always wise," the Lama said, nodding. "But your desire for it has caused it to lose its use. It now causes your suffering."

I could not argue with that. I thought of the tiny needle marks along my arm, testament to the lengths I would go to avoid that listless existence between cases.

"You can end your own suffering by eliminating your own wants," he continued. "I can teach you to meditate, if you wish, to find the true self that exists beneath those wants. The part of you that is connected to everything else that lives." I politely declined; I have witnessed meditation rituals in my time here and I know I cannot turn my mind off in that way. Opening it completely to any thought that chances across it is the last thing I want.

We had reached the outside of the palace, and the Lama kindly left me to think on what he said. Most of it consisted of rightness; right thinking, right effort, right action, right livelihood. I find myself puzzled by this. According to these tenets, my life has been a paragon of rightness. My career has led me to help many who would have been lost otherwise. I have, through my cases, prevented crimes which would have caused irreparable harm to life and property. But I know I did not do so out of any altruistic desire. It was the puzzle, the intellectual problem that appealed to me. Are the beneficial results any less so because my intentions were not entirely selfless? Surely results are what matter? Bah, I have no patience for this type of philosophizing. I was content to end my career on the high note of Moriarty's death, and so it will remain.

Nevertheless, the matter of suffering continues to intrigue me. When I began this sojourn after my apparent death at the Reichenbach Falls, I did not expect it to last this long. Indeed, I was so ill prepared that I fully expected Moriarty's henchmen to find me in a matter of months, or else to make some mistake, allowing me to return home. That has not been the case, as this account testifies. Two and a half years into my journey with no end in sight, I am beginning to view those quiet days at Baker Street with a longing I never thought I would. Is this suffering I can simply end? Surely it is entirely natural to want to return home.

But I am not unhappy now because I want to be here. I don't want to be here; I never wanted the Moriarty case to go so far. It was only because of my own underestimation of the man that I was forced to take this drastic a step. If what I had wanted had taken place, I would very happily be in my Baker Street rooms right now. Perhaps Watson would be visiting. What a pleasant thought, and I have had few enough of those recently.

Of course. I have been thinking about this all wrong. Yes, I wanted the Moriarty case completed to my satisfaction, but only because of something else I wanted much more. Watson's safety. I have detailed many times in this record how it is only his sincere belief that I am dead keeping Moriarty's most sinister henchman, Col. Moran, from seeking him out. If he should have any idea that I am alive...I do not even want to think what they would do to him to get that information. Or to Mrs. Watson. Surely that is a desire worth being utterly miserable for a while to achieve.

But I know that my motives even in this are not entirely pure. I do not claim that Watson is the only person I have ever cared for. Even I am not an island. I hold my brother in high regard (although should he ever read this, I will deny it profusely, as is the right of a younger sibling). Mrs. Hudson, Mrs. Watson, even Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson have become friendly stars in my personal sky. Watson is simply the only person without whom my life would be utterly empty.

There. I have admitted it to this journal, if nowhere else. I desire Watson's safety because he is essential to me, for reasons I have never understood. I was prepared to die to ensure it, although I am pleased it did not come to that. Should he not wish to speak to me again in the face of this deception, my ultimate goal will still be accomplished, however personally painful it is to me. But the thought of living on without him, no, that is a world I do not care to contemplate. My truest desire, then, is for us both to be safe in London. How can that be causing me suffering? Is that so terrible a thing to want? And yet, I know it is. Only ten years ago I would have relished the chance to take on an enemy like Professor Moriarty, to travel the world escaping a vast criminal web. Now, I find that the excitement pales in comparison to a warm fire or the prospect of a pleasant outing with my dearest friend. I am growing old, I expect. Perhaps I should remain retired, even after I return to London.

Is the achievement of a desire, then, an evil? If the desire itself does no harm to anyone else? Should I ever see Watson again, and if he is forgiving enough to allow me back into his life, what harm is that fulfillment doing anyone? As far as I can see, it has done me only good. He has provided me valuable assistance, and through me, many others as well. His presence is, I believe, the only thing that has kept me from losing myself on more than one occasion. I truly cannot feel that he is anything but a complete good to all who know him, and if desiring that presence in my life is wrong, well then, let me be wrong. I have been right often enough that this one time - this most important time - should mean little.

I dearly hope no one ever reads this account; I have become far too introspective and sentimental. No doubt it is concentrating on the metaphysical (thank you, brother mine) that has brought this out in me. It is dangerous, to let my guard down even for a moment. I will never reach my goal - returning to London, and to Watson - if Moran finds me contemplating the nature of good and evil before I am ready. This desire will keep me alive, if I can only remain focused on it.

I very much doubt I shall want for anything else, ever, once that end has been achieved.