A/N: I am totally losing my schedule with this thing. *Sighs* I am a bad authoress *Hits head* I should provide you with more, so here it is!

NO disclaimer: Public Domain!

Ch. 14-The Root of Madness

7 August, 1894

Why am I here? How am I still alive? I have settled for the inevitable, final conclusion to this moment and while my mind is ready, my body appears to wish to carry on. But why? My physical heart continues to beat a tattoo of betrayal while my inner heart ceased to do so after that day. The only answer that I can divine is that I must write this, I must commit this to paper so as to achieve some inner peace.

I do not hold much hope.

Once more I am in my corner with no other company apart from my sleeping neighbor whom I hope, just as yesterday, will remain in that state. My mind descends into a jumble of unreliable thoughts and emotions as it slowly becomes impossible for me to distinguish what is real and what is not. Reality is like the sand of a broken hourglass—it continues to slip through my fingers. What parts that I do capture are, unfortunately, the ones I most wish to forget.

One such moment occurs during my visit with Sir Henry. I had been there a week and a half and was quickly drawing to the conclusion that this was a wound that would not heal; I would not recover. When I look back at those moments and how Sir Henry treated me, that hollow organ in my chest aches. He was trying so very hard, made certain that I slept all that I wanted, that only my favorite foods were available, and that he was always close at hand to provide a sympathetic ear or distraction. It was simply not enough and he knew it—the anger, pain and sadness was the easiest to spot when he failed to make me smile.

The morning began as damp as any other with the fog from the night still blanketing much of the dips and swells in the land, but the sun was showing strength, burning away the fog steadily. With the promise of such amiable weather, Sir Henry proposed a walk across the moor. As I knew it was yet another attempt to lift my spirits, I agreed, but I must confess that I held no great enthusiasm over the venture. Precognition—a lingering sense of foreboding—some inner instinct warned that I would find no pleasure in this exercise.

Once we had bundled up appropriately (and I had shut up Regina in my room), we set out with no particular destination in mind though I did note that we were wandering in the general direction of the Merrepit House. For a time, the silence stretched comfortably between us and I must say, I was glad of it. It is not that I do not enjoy conversing with the baronet, but I was accustomed to silence and while others who have suffered through heartbreak may wish for chatter to keep their mind occupied, I do not. The silence allows me to keep my mind blank and my body becomes as vacant as a corpse. This was how I hoped our entire walk would progress, but when Sir Henry led me to an outcropping of rocks, I knew that my hope was in vain.

Retrieving the extra blanket from his pack, the baronet spread it out over his chosen seat, a rock shielded from the wind, and beckoned me to join him. Steeling my nerves for whatever talk was about to take place, I obeyed and we found ourselves seated shoulder to shoulder. My trepidation rose as he grabbed my hand in one of his own, clearly tipping the line of friend into something more.

But I was cursed in this as I was in all other things.

"You know what most frightens me about this whole business, John?" he began, choosing to keep his eyes on the distant moor instead of my face. I shook my head and muttered a soft, "No."

"The fact that you're so unreasonably calm!" he exploded before cocking his head in my direction and grimacing when all I offered him was a raised eyebrow in response. Turning away once more, the baronet sucked in a deep breath and held it before letting it out in a small gush.

"Do not think me a cad or crude or cruel for asking you this, but I cannot contain myself any longer. Why do you still love him?"

Feeling as though I had been bludgeoned in the back of the head, I wrenched my hand from his grasp and stumbled away, deaf to the pleadings of the other man. How long I travelled, I am uncertain, but it only came to an end when a hand gripped my collar and yanked with enough violence to send us both tumbling to the ground. The hand at my collar was exchanged for two arms around my waist and despite knowing that I must have knocked the wind from him, I could still hear Sir Henry's frantic mutterings in my ear.

"Not into the Mire, please—I'm sorry! I take it back—I don't need to know! Just not into the Mire…"

As I could not break the strong grip upon my waist, I shifted enough so that we lay side-by-side and waited patiently until the baronet's fear had calmed. When the mutterings finally came to an end, I patted one of the arms that still held me prisoner. "Might I get up now?"

Though I could not see it, the heat of the man's blush was unmistakable just before he rolled away and clamored to his feet. I gratefully accepted his offered hand and allowed him to pull me upright once more. He secured an arm around my shoulders, the man is indisputably tactile in nature, but I could not help but wonder if this gesture was for his security and comfort or mine. Soon enough we were ensconced on the rock, but this time the baronet did not venture any inquires.

Such a question he had posed, such a small, yet enormous question! Should I give into the impulse to answer "I just do" or "I don't know"? Both would be true but still lacked any clarification on the subject. And how was he even sure that I still loved Holmes? What proof did he possess? Was it a rival's instinct? I shook my head and cast my eyes downward. That was a disservice to the man who had shown me nothing but kindness in all the time I had known him. By God would my life not be easier if my heart belonged to him! Even now, after all that had happened—between Reichenbach and the Incident—I could not let go. I suffered just as much now as I did all those years ago when I chose Holmes over Sir Henry.

What is truly frightening to me is that, given the choice again, I would still choose Holmes—even now.

Perhaps that is the true reason why I ran. I could not allow myself to become the dog at his heels, grateful for whatever scraps of affection that were thrown my way. That is what I feared. I would cease to be a human being and become just another tool in the great detective's arsenal. I could not face the partnership that I so treasured degenerating into such a state. By running, I was allowed to preserve the memory of our friendship that was, while certainly not perfect, one I could claim to be proud of.

But was it true to say that I still loved Holmes?

God help me—yes!

Digging the heels of my hands into my eyes I drew in a deep breath, held it, and then let it out slowly. "That is not an easy question," I began, keeping my eyes trained on the distant landscape, "but a better one to begin with might be this: How did I come to love him in the first place?" A small chuckle escaped from me. "Did I ever tell you of our first meeting?"

"No, but I did read A Study in Scarlet. I've read everything you've written."

"Then you know that we were introduced through a mutual acquaintance, Stamford. I was at a very low point, just returned from the war, barely recovered enough to travel home, a body that was entirely new to me and barely functional. I can honestly say that had fate not brought me to Stamford that day and he in turn to Holmes, we would not be speaking at this very moment. There was a very good chance that I might have killed myself." I twisted the scarf relentlessly between my restless fingers. "But then I met him. Everything is just as I described it in the Strand with the exception of my honest thoughts on the matter. My first true thought of him was 'What a beautiful madman!' For there was little doubt in my mind that others, by this I mean society in general, must feel that he is an escaped Bedlamite. I knew that he simply did not feel the need to constrain himself completely to the rules that governed so many others. He was himself." A smile crept over my face as I savored the memory. "It was extraordinarily refreshing. When he made the simple deduction that I was just back from Afghanistan, but made no fuss over the matter, I knew that he was the roommate for me. No pity, no sympathy. No—he possessed empathy. I soon realised why. He was waging his own private war on the crime of his chosen city." The smile slid to a smirk as I cut my eyes briefly in the others direction. "I knew at the end of that brief interview that, if nothing else, he would provide a continual source of entertainment. He fulfilled my expectations and beyond. He did his very best in those early days to be accommodating to my condition (I am certain he had no wish to find a new roommate) but he made no great issue of it. Others that I had encountered treated me as if I were a delicate figurine that had been broken and then clumsily glued back together. Or they did not know how to treat me at all and were very uncomfortable in my presence. I am not certain, even now, which was worse.

"Holmes committed neither of these cardinal sins. He treated me as a normal human being who was not broken past his usefulness. He helped me back into the medical profession. Simple things at first. Questions over anatomy, what would I do in case of coming into contact with this or that poison, if I knew of any ways this medical instrument might be used to sever a limb, or just the practice of modern medicine in general. Do you know he was my first patient upon my return to England? Damn fool was caught by the very gang he was stalking. I knew nothing was amiss until he was hauled into the sitting room by two police constables nearly out of his mind with fever. He'd had a cold prior to the beginning of the stakeout, but he waved away my warnings on the matter, naturally. When Lestrade and the other Yarders found him he insisted, despite his deplorable state, on coming to me and became quite violent when they attempted the hospital. The inspector later confided in me that the entire cab ride to 221B Holmes was muttering 'Only trust Watson.'"

I shifted about. "Not only did I end up treating him, but two of those police constables and Lestrade as well. That was my first step back into medicine and I have never regretted it. So you see, Henry, Holmes gave me purpose, he gave me confidence. His staunch belief that I was still a human being meant more to me than I can ever express. I owe him more than my life—I owe him everything."

A sad smile creased my face. "I cannot speak for any other but I found it an easy thing to love him. The difficult task was to hide it from a man who has made a career of ferreting the secrets from others."

Silence fell between us as the baronet processed all that I had revealed. It was more than I had spoken in some time and never on such a personal topic. Not even Mycroft had managed to pull such a confession from me, but my defenses were low and I was not inclined to conceal much. At this point I knew that my time at Baskerville Hall was drawing to a close, but I was still at a loss as to what I would do next. I had run to escape Holmes, but did not his shadow loom over every aspect of my life? I was rapidly coming to the conclusion that there was no destination I could choose that would afford me that wish.

"One more question, old man, and I shall never again bring up the subject, of that you have my promise," Sir Henry assured and I nodded my head for him to continue. "Can you ever forgive him for what he has done?"

Ah! Another weighty question! Was he not just brimming with them today? This one, however, I had given much thought to in the previous days and was readily able to provide an answer. "I shall be able to forgive Holmes if-

End Ch. 14

A/N: I am so evil. *GRINS*

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