Author's Note:
Like I said, tissues. I cried a river over this one.
Yesterday, I thought I wasn't going to get the install I was working on done, so when I started getting this chapter ready for posting, I put the status bar as "36.5." But then, not only did I manage to get the one install finished, but I also went on to do a second! Hallelujah, that was wonderful! The chapter that I thought I wouldn't finish was a sequel to the last one uploaded, "20. Die," and is the longest story I've done for AMM yet!
Status: 38 out of 100 complete.
To my reviewers:
nomdeplume30: Heeey, haven't seen you in a while—nice to have you back! *hug-tacklez* Thank you! I get a kick out of their teasing each other and acting like kids, too. ^_^
Moonspun Dragon: Yeah, I know (about the Watson/Lestrade mix-up). Sorry 'bout that! And about the story challenge, yay! Well, of course, you'll put it on FFN—where else would it be? ^_^ (Holmes: *glower* "Thank you, Brett.") Thank you!
Spockologist: XDDD Thanks! And I can't wait to see what you'll come up with for the challenge!
SabrinaPhynn: I love the Irregulars, too—I wish they'd been in, more! Heh, yeah, I actually didn't know popovers existed till my mom made them when I was… 13-ish? But they're good, yes! And… you're the only one in your family that likes them hot? How odd… I mean, how else would you eat them? Anyway, thank you! (Oh, and will your child!fic be from Mrs. Holmes's POV? That would be AWESOME!)
O'FoggageGreen: You're welcome! Ha-ha, I once tried coining a pairing name… I'm still not sure if it's stuck… *shrugs* Coining terms are still fun, whether or not anybody uses them. ;-) Brothers and uncles totally works—and that's what I'm getting from it, too! =D Thank you!
© 2011 by Aleine Skyfire.
All rights reserved.
==21. Memory==
Rating: PG
Summary: "What was running through your mind as you penned these? Those dreadful days between May '91 and April '94…"
Warnings: mention of character deaths
Word Count: 480
He knelt before the battered old trunk, lifted the lid, and reverently began to lift out papers. A smile touched his lips at the sight of an old date—1883, "The Adventure of the Speckled Band."
"Oh, my dear Watson," he breathed. "Your romantic streak always was as large as your generous heart." He thumbed through the case notes and the appended draft for the Strand, then set the file aside, choosing "The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle" for his next perusal.
"What was running through your mind as you penned these?" he murmured. "Those dreadful days between May '91 and April '94…" Certainly, no reader could possibly have discerned any grief, however distant, in the content of the three-and-twenty short stories published prior to "The Final Problem." But Holmes knew his Watson. The stories were his way of dealing with his grief—of looking back, learning from the past, and moving on.
"You… always were better at that than I. I learned from past cases, but you learned from past events. It took many an incident to hammer anything pertaining to matters of the heart into my head, eh?" He paused, a lump just beginning to form his throat. "What I would not give to go back and change that, to make myself see how much more there was to life than intellectual exercises and justice. It took yet another wound to your leg, retirement, and a bloody Great War to make me truly see. When I think of all the time I'd wasted in my self-centeredness…" He could not continue that thought.
The entire Adventures of Sherlock Holmes was laid aside on the nearby armchair. The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes soon joined them, "The Final Problem" remaining untouched. He paused at "The Adventure of the Empty House," but could not bring himself to open that file, either. He couldn't.
The trunk was soon clear of all sixty published cases. Below them lay an unfinished manuscript, titled simply Sherlock Holmes and the Great War. He tentatively lifted it out of the trunk, thumbing gently through the many pages. Had it been completed, the novel would have been the doctor's longest work, a masterpiece detailing their services during the war.
He wanted to finish it himself—truly, he did—but the mere thought of completing his Boswell's final manuscript…
He couldn't.
He looked up from the journal in his hands, out the window where clouds drifted gently in the azure sky. His vision blurred and remained that way. "Oh, Watson," he whispered hoarsely. "How I miss you! I don't wish you back, my dear fellow, but I long for the day when we shall be reunited."
A single drop of saltwater sparkled through the air and spotted the manuscript, almost at the same time an aching twinge in his chest reminded him…
"Thank God, I think it may be soon."
Author's Note:
I… put this sometime in the 1930s. If you've ever read KCS's "My Dear Watson," you may note the similarities, but this is NOT a cop-off. If anything, this could be a companion piece to two future planned novels: To Take Up the Pen and Sherlock Holmes and the Great War. (See blog for details—y'know, I won't quit plugging for it until I get more than Spockologist's and Moonspun's responses on it!)
Btw, SCAN was first published in July 1891, two months after Reichenbach. Like Holmes, we have to wonder what was going through Watson's mind… I think, though, that he understands…
Next Friday…"War." A FINA piece. (That story is AWESOMELY inspiring for fics.)
Please review!