All Hope Abandoned

by Ankha

I once asked myself what could Holmes do to drive Watson away. This is what came out: Hidden away in the wall of a cottage a set of journals were found. The secrets they held were nothing short of tragic. Slash H/W.

18. The Journey's End

A/N: And here it is, the moment we have all been waiting for. I hope it doesn't disappoint!

Disclaimer: Public Domain!

Chapter 18 – At Journey's End

Forgiveness. It was the topic of my previous entry – inevitably this entire journal – and continues to be so.

My thoughts on the subject of forgiving Holmes – and the preposterous notion that Holmes would seek such forgiveness – were becoming rather circular and, with my journal held securely to my chest, I followed my rather nosy neighbor into the land of dreams.

It was two days before I saw the forward Frenchman again and he let loose a gasp of dismay upon viewing me.

"Mon petit, you look absolutely ghastly! I had believed you were getting better."

The honest concern that colored the man's tone allowed me to release some of the irritation that still plagued me from our last encounter. It did not, however, contain my grim smile.

"I am afraid that the question you posed to me has been enough to rob me of any sleep."

I was heartily surprised by the determined, and decidedly unapologetic, expression that settled on the elders face.

"I'm glad that you are giving the problem the attention that it deserves, but I do hope that it will not continue to trouble you for too much longer."

Frustrated, as well as supremely exhausted, I tossed my hands in the air before wheeling myself away from the meddling menace before I gave in to the urge to strangle him. Settling into my new spot I opened my journal but found, to my dismay, that I had nothing new to add. As it stood, my hand shook too much to be of any use to me and in a fit of pique I threw my pen away. I regretted a moment later for now I was without any means with which I might distract myself and I was fast approaching the point of pulling what remained of my hair from my scalp.

The sad fact of the matter was that I was in no condition to do much of anything which might relieve me of contemplating the situation (and that question) at length. I was bed ridden, or as close as one might be without actually being so, and clearly at an impasse over this entire situation. Why would it not all go away? Why was my every waking thought consumed with thoughts of him? I had hoped that this journal would exercise his demon from my soul, but instead I found my mind could not be pulled onto any other topic. Perhaps it was the fever, but I could no longer simply empty my head of thoughts as I had at the beginning of this trial.

I had left London, left England to escape Holmes. But how was I to escape him inside my own mind? It was foolish to even contemplate the thought of him rushing to my side with an apology on his lips.

With that discouraging thought, I tucked the journal away at my side so that no curious busybodies might have the urge to snoop and closed my eyes. I had not managed any proper sleep in the past few days and a nap would not all be amiss – if I could manage it.

Voices brought me back to reality and I opened my eyes a fraction in hopes of discovering who was causing such a stir. By the position of the shadows in the room I would hazard to guess I'd managed only an hours worth of sleep. My limbs felt as though they had been suffused with lead and I would have been very happy to return to the land of dreams and, indeed, I had allowed my eyes to fall shut when I heard the voice that drove all thoughts of sleep for my body.

"I must see him!"

Sherlock Holmes.

At first I believe that my mind had stooped to a new level of trickery and this was the first sign that I truly was losing my mind.

But then I heard it again.

"Madame, he is a good friend, one that I am sorry that I ever lost sight of and frankly I was horrified to learn he was ill. And, quite frankly, Madame, it will take more than you or any personnel within this hospital to keep me from his bedside."

I was not the hearing things. He was here – he was here for me I was certain – but why? Why had he come? To gaze upon the ruin that I had become? To finish what he started?

To save me?

"He is very ill, monsieur, he has slept very poorly these last few days. He is only just managed to fall asleep and I will not have him disturbed!"

Ah! So it was Nurse Blain who is barring access to me. She stood as my guard, but I did not hold out much hope that she would succeed. I know/knew Holmes. Once the bit was between his teeth he would not rest until he achieved his goal.

And it now seemed as though I was his goal.

Shivers wracked my body at the thought of him coming near me and I wasn't entirely certain if fear was their source – or hope. I was at a loss as to what I would do. He was here – it was simply not possible! Why? Why?

Wild thoughts galloped through my brain, each more ridiculous than the last. I was well and truly trapped. There was nothing to be done, I told myself, but to wait. I forced my fist to unclench and the rest of my body into some form of relaxation. While it reluctantly obeyed, there was nothing to be done about my somersaulting stomach, or my rampaging heart. It was all that I could do to keep my breathing from escaping my control and I greatly feared I would not be able to maintain the charade for long.

Once I had attained a modicum of success, I allow myself to listen into the conversation once more. It was not overly shocking to discover that Nurse Blain had capitulated to my friend's insistent demands and he was even now making his way in my direction. It was clear that he was doing his best to mask his approach, though to my overly attentive ears every footfall was as loud as a gunshot. A slight scrape and faint squeak – he had drawn a chair close and seated himself within it – then silence once more.

What was he thinking? Despite years of constant exposure to his methods, I was certain that I would never see the world in quite the same manner as he did. I often had the fanciful notion that it must be something akin to being pelted constantly by rocks and the only way to protect himself, to make sense of it all, was to develop his methods of deduction. It allowed him to be in control and to not allow the sensory input to control him.

So what was it that he saw now? Did he note my darkened hair? It would be several more washings before it returned to its original color. Or perhaps my deathly pallor and sunken cheeks drew his attention? Was the nightshirt and dressing gown enough to hide my weight loss? Perchance it would be...

But it was none of those and any further contemplation of the matter was cut short as trembling fingers ghosted over my upper lip, mourning, it would seem, my lack of mustache.

"John." It was a mere half breath, but it held so much. Pain, anger, loss, despair – it was as though I had been allowed to view the path straight to his heart. I could not prevent my eyes from flying open no more than he could contain the flinch when I did so, but he did not withdraw and I did not move away. His fingers continue to trace the path of my shorn mustache, but his eyes refused to meet mine, instead traveling over my entire person as I imagined they had already done.

He called me John. Not once in our entire acquaintance could I recall my forename passing his lips. I understood why of course; it was to keep us at a distance, and for me to be clear on the fact that I should keep my distance from him. To allow yourself to be touched was only to invite pain as I knew from first-hand experience.

But now – he spoke my name is if it were an invocation (benediction?), as if invoking my name I would be able to magically heal the grievous wound that lay across us. Would that it were so simple. To those untrained in the art of watching Sherlock Holmes, they would believe him perfectly composed, but I... I could see the cracks in the mask. Some were deep, harsh, yet others were fine and slight.

But he… I found myself blinking as my slowed mind finally caught up with what was truly before me and quite involuntarily, I found myself leaning forward to examine him more carefully. I had always admired his high cheekbones, but now they were like sharp points instead of rounded curves, their peaks splashed with high color even as the rest of his face likely shared a pallor that was similar to mine. Even if his hair was recently washed – I would even go so far as to say that it was still damp – it fell free of his habitual lime cream and a delightful mess curls that caused sudden itch within my fingers for the want of running them through it. His clothing was wrinkled and stained with travel, but what caused the thrill of alarm to shoot through my chest was how it practically hung from his frame. Holmes never had an ounce of fat to spare, but now he must be positively skeletal.

What could have possibly caused this? What caused him to push his body so close to collapse? Surely it was not, and I swallowed thickly at this thought, my perverse desires for him. Why should that have been a concern? Once I was banished from his presence he should have never given me another thought.

And yet, here he was.

I had this simultaneous urge to cause such a ruckus that he would immediately be removed or to turn away from him, dismissing him in much the same way that he dismissed me. But I was not one to allow others to fight my fight nor was I a coward. And as much as I wished to beat him with my fist to return the pain that he caused me, I would not. He did not deserve it and I did not possess the energy. It seemed as though he endured his own brand of hardship, if the badly hidden bruise was any evidence.

But why would he not bloody well speak?

We were to get nowhere if I was to allow him to continue in this manner, waiting for him to gather his courage. I was tired and impatient and therefore took matters into my own hands. I grasped his chin firmly despite my shaking hand and tilted his head till our eyes met.

"Sherlock," I commanded – and oh how strange that name felt upon my tongue and lips! – "Speak."

He flinched though my voice was not harsh and closed his eyes, gasping out, "What would you have me say?"

My lips thinned of their own accord and I gave his head a little shake. "Look at me!" My sharp tone brought immediate results. "Now, say what you came to say."

Now that our eyes were locked together I was shocked at the amount of emotions that shone through the normally expressionless gray orbs. While his face might retain the ragged remains of a mask his eyes did not. His every thought was wide open for the viewing. Little wonder he would not allow me to see them before!

What was perhaps most amazing of all were the two emotions that seem to fight for dominance – fear and shame.

But what could he possibly be afraid of? I certainly possessed not even an iota of strength and could in no way harm him. And what did he have to be ashamed of? I held no knowledge of his activities beyond The Incident and therefore unaware of any reason why he might be ashamed. It would be terribly narcissistic on my part to believe that I might be the origin of either one of these emotions.

Unless… I was.

Despite whatever Sherlock Holmes had done to me by way of harm, I still own the urge to soothe his distress and he was clearly distressed.

Releasing his chin I raise my other hand and cradled his head between my palms, one thumb absently stroking a protruding cheekbone.

"Please, Sherlock," I pleaded, "I'm listening."

His eyes fluttered shut at my new touch and long fingers closed around my wrists, holding them in place.

"I am a fool," he whispered plainly. I must've made some involuntary sound of protest, for he slowly shook his head, releasing a bitter chuckle, before opening his eyes to meet mine. "I've not done one thing, one damn thing in my entire life to deserve a person such as you."

There was that bitter chuckle again and I must confess that it sent a shiver down my spine.

"John – I fear you've been lying to the public for years with your stories – and, I must confess, that I have read every one – for how can I claim to be a master of deduction when I was completely blind to what was before me, and have been so for years?" His hands left my wrists as he finished, unable to remain still any longer, and he withdrew handkerchief from his coat pocket. It was such an unconscious maneuver that it was quite obvious, when combined with the signs of wear it sported, that it was a habit he had indulged in a great deal of late.

And despite its soiled state and the fingers that were gripping it in a rather spasmodic fashion, I recognized it as one of my own.

I… was not certain what to make of that.

"I meant what I said!" He spit out suddenly after a long moment of silence. His outburst drew my attention away from the handkerchief but once more, it seemed, he was unwilling to look at me. "That day, when I drove you away," he eventually clarified after a brief pause, "I meant everything that I said."

In shock, I released his face, which had been sagging within my grasp, and drew back. It did not make the first bit of sense and I could not suppress the stab of pain in my chest at his confession. If he meant what he said at the time then why would… My thoughts ground to a halt as he lunged forward, dropping the handkerchief so that he might capture my retreating hands.

"No! That's not what I… What I truly meant was…" His sigh was just short of the bellow of frustration and his hands tightened reflexively around mine. "These emotions will be my downfall, for now they have stolen my prepared speech and replaced it with garbled nonsense."

For the moment we had descended back into silence as Holmes gathered his wits about him and I waited with rather morbid curiosity to know what he might say. I readily admit that, even now, I can only record snatches of my feelings as I cannot accurately recall what they were and there were far too many to ascribe names to them all. I was overjoyed and terrified to see him. I wanted him to leave immediately and never abandon my side again. I wanted to hit him and hold him. It was all beginning to become rather too much and I wondered that if I continued to contain it, would I not explode from the sheer pressure?

"That day," he began again, interupting my internal musings, "I did mean what I said, because at the time I was operating under false assumptions."

"You never just assume anything," I could not resist pointing out.

He ducked his head much like a chastened schoolboy. "You would be correct in most instances. My emotions clouded my judgment and led me to false deductions over our situation. I then acted on these erroneous conclusions which led me to harm you in ways I did not know I was capable of." His thumb, of its own accord, began to stroke my hand. I was not certain if the gesture was meant to soothe him or me, but some part of me began to unwind at the movement.

"What was it that pitched you into such a fever?"

His lips quirked upwards and he dared to glance up. "You," he answered simply. "It is always been and ever shall be you, my dear John." His gaze fell once more. "For weeks after my return I waited. Surely, I thought, surely you could not forgive me so easily. I left you! I abandoned you at those wretched falls with the belief that I had died. I knew you would blame yourself for having left me to my supposed to doom to chase what was nothing more than a wild goose. But I had too!" His eyes darted to mine, wild with the need for me to understand. "Moran was hunting us and I could not allow him to turn his sights upon you!" His eyes fell once more. "So I ran as far and fast as I could, knowing I was the central game, the ultimate tiger for the old shikar."

His thumb ceased its caress and instead he now inspected my hand as though it was the most fascinating piece of evidence he had ever seen. Every digit was examined, each joint tested, palm traced, and nail circled. I had seen Holmes treat other things in such a manner, but never had I been the focus of that intense scrutiny and to be so now with a heady sensation. The touches, I was surprised to find, were also very relaxing and I found that a sigh escaped before it could be contain it. Holmes, I noted wryly, seemed pleased to have caused this reaction.

"I did my best to be rid of them, you know." His comment seemed random and pulled me from the sleepy state I begin to sink into.

"You speak, as always, in riddles," I said.

"It is no riddle, merely a continuance," he corrected. "You wanted to know what caused me to treat you in such a villainous manner, and I am attempting, rather poorly to do so."

Ah, now that sounded like the Holmes I knew!

"I worked myself into such a state, after which I've contrived that dastardly plan, because of my feelings for you."

I held my breath, hardly following. His feelings for me? In what roundabout manner could they possibly have anything to do with it?

"Just what feelings," I demand quietly, "were those?"

His whole body jerked at the question and his hand clasped mine, intertwining the fingers.

"My hope, my fear, my joy, my admiration," he paused, drawing in a deep breath before stuttering in his quietest whisper, "my love."

I had always believed and still believe it to be an unforgivable cliché to state that the world stopped at such declarations, but now I could say that there's some truth behind it. What little of the world had intruded upon us fell away and my ability to breathe momentarily failed me. Love? Love! What was this? What love? The love of a friend, of a brother, more?

Even as I puzzled over this, a new and rather more distressing thought sprang to mind. What if he had discovered my hidden regard for him and this was, in some horrible manner, his plan to lure me back so that he might finish what he started?

No! Holmes would not treat me in such a vile manner, how could I even believe that to be true?

But had he not done so already?

Any further thoughts were brought to a halt by the sudden tight grip upon my hand.

"Please," Holmes pleaded, "say something!"

I merely blinked at him, unable to give voice to the chaos he had stirred within me.

One of his hands rose to grip my shoulders, giving me a little shake. "John!"

"You are lying," stumbled from my mouth before I could stop it.

Holmes reared back as though I had struck him, releasing both my hand and my shoulder.

"No! I would never… How could you say such a thing?"

"It would not be the first time," I returned bitterly, wrapping my arms around myself and turning my head away, "that you have done so to achieve your ends. I am heartily tired of being cast the fool in your melodramas, and would thank you to not do so now." My eyes stung and I closed them in a vain hope to stave off the coming tears. "If you have finished, I must ask you to leave. I am very tired and wish to sleep." I turned away from his stunned visage completely and burrowed within my blanket. For a moment there was silence, and then I heard the telltale squeak of a chair being relieved of its burden. It was in that moment that I allowed the tears to win. He was leaving, I had been the one to send him away, I…

But the footsteps did not retreat as I expected, but instead circled my chair. Two cold hands clasped my face and lifted it to the light. Through the haze of tears I could just make out the detective.

"I do love you, John Watson, possibly more than I ought and whether or not you choose to believe me, I am not lying. I've been a fool not see what was right in front of me all along, but you must understand, I have no prior experience with the notion of love, but, I am certain, if there ever existed the perfect match for me, it is you. I would hope you would believe the same and yet I would not blame you if you didn't. I have treated you vilely – for that all I can do is apologize and beg that you will allow me to make it up to you. If you are unwilling to allow this and wish that I would vanish from your sight, I will certainly do so." Leaning forward, he bestowed a chaste kiss upon my forehead. "I will leave you now to think for I have upset you enough for one day. I am staying at the Lion," his lips quirked into a quick smile, "the very room in which you stayed. There your queen and I will await your answer one way or another."

"My queen?" Was all that I could manage.

"I believe you named her Regina. She is indeed very," he cocked his head to the side as he searched for the word that might best describe my feline companion, "queenly," he finally decided.

Standing, he clasped one of my hands in his own and brushed a kiss across the knuckles. "Whatever your final answer may be, John Watson, remember that I love you." With those final words he seemed to vanish – he was suddenly gone between one blink in the next.

With no tangible proof that he'd ever been present at all, I was uncertain what to think. A hysterical laugh began to bubble up within me. Had I conjured him? Was he simply a product of my sleep deprived, fever-addled mind? Jean-Luc had planted the thought of Holmes returning to rescue me as though I were some damsel in distress from a fairytale, was it not conceivable that my mind had taken the idea and created this hallucination? Was I not mad? Why add to the torment?

These damning thoughts circled and pecked at my sanity, for I still believed that the notion of Holmes returning to my side was absurd.

It was too much, just too much.

As if my discordant thoughts were enough to summon him, Holmes once more appeared at my side with concern glistening in his gray eyes.

"John, what is this? What is wrong?"

"What is wrong," I choked out between laughs, "is that you are nothing but an illusion, my mind conjuring up its greatest tricks to further torment me! I cannot have you and my sanity…"

The flow of words was abruptly halted by a pair of soft, dry lips closing over mine. It was brief, abrupt, demanding and slightly awkward.

It was purely Holmes.

Before I could begin to process the action (and I heartily doubted if even the most elaborate hallucination would be able to do that!) it ended and Holmes seized one of my hands, pressing it flat against his chest.

"Feel my heart, Doctor! I am as real as you and grieved you believe the only manner in which this might happen is in your fevered dreams. It speaks of just how deep and grievous the wound that I have inflicted upon you is. Please believe me, John, if I could erase that I would, but since I cannot, I will employ all my powers to seeing it and you healed."

Beneath my hand I could feel his heart beating slightly faster than it should, no doubt due to the distress he was currently suffering from. But at the moment I did not care because it was there! It is a terribly narcissistic claim, but of all the heartbeats I have felt during my tenure as a doctor, I always believed that I could pick his out above the rest. And if this was his heartbeat then…

"You're truly here."

A small, sad smile creased his face. "I truly am."

"Holmes," I stated plainly, "you hurt me terribly and by all rights I should never wish see you again."

His expression did not change but I glimpsed the first tendrils of new fear beginning to take hold in his eyes. "Is that what you wish?"

I sighed and pulled my hand from his chest now that I was thoroughly convinced he was real and rubbed my face with it. "I have been asked if I could forgive you by more than one person. It is a question, along with why you would do this and what I was to do with myself now, that has plagued me since the beginning. So much of what I am is tangled with you that I sometimes wonder where I ended and you begin.

And yet… When I should not care in the slightest, I wish to know how you would make it up to me."

I have seen many expressions upon that handsome face, but never before had I seen it alight with a look of such gratitude that he fairly glowed with it. He had won; I had given in. It was hard won for both of us and it was entirely too soon to say if it was a victory not. And in truth, I had not forgiven him, not yet, and I believe he'd deduced that.

But I was giving him a chance which would seem to be more than he had expected to be granted.

Following upon the heels of gratitude was the most beautiful smile I have ever had the pleasure to see. He gently captured one of my hands within his and stroked his thumb across the top.

"Thank you," he whispered, briefly bringing my captured hand to his lips. "My first order of business would be to remove you from this wretched establishment. It's little wonder you have had minimal success in healing."

"Holmes," I protested immediately, though I could feel a smile threatening to come forth. "This is a perfectly acceptable hospital. It is exceptionally clean and the staff both competent and caring."

"But you are not getting better," he pointed out.

The smile surfaced although it had morphed into a sad one. "I had no reason to."

He held his breath. "And now?"

"Now I do."

"You have no objections to my plan so far?"

I shook my head.

"You are obviously not strong enough to return to England yet, but a short trip to the Lion should not be beyond your strength at the moment."

"No, I do not think so."

"Excellent! Then you shall allow me to wait upon you until you are well enough to return to Baker Street." Here he paused, clearly hesitating with his next question. "That is, if you wish to return to Baker Street?"

I smiled over his hesitation and gave his hand a squeeze. "I should like nothing better though I must confess that I believed that I should never see England, let alone our rooms, again."

"You will." The force of the answer was a direct challenge to anything that should deny it coming to pass "Once we are home, and you safely and ensconced your room once more..."

"My room?" I interrupted, unable to stop myself. "But I thought..." I did not finish the sentence, but the flush of my cheeks made it clear what wasn't said. It was gratifying to see an identical one staining my... What was he to me now?

"While it is very gratifying to know that you wish to be there, it will not do, at least, not yet."

My brow furrowed. "And why not?" It was not indignation that colored my tone, just honest curiosity.

He frowned a bit. "John, I thought you would know considering..." He trailed off, the flush upon his cheeks darkening. "That is to say, is it not customary to court ones beloved first? My research into this matter has led me to that conclusion."

Court? He planned to court me? The wild urge to laugh over the notion rose, but was easily suppressed. Holmes, my Holmes who had shown nothing but disdain for those 'soft emotions' and took great pleasure in ridiculing those who indulged in what he considered to be useless frivolities? I had always been so careful, so I believed, to search for deception behind such rants on the subject, but had failed utterly in doing so.

At my silence, Holmes hesitated again. "While I will be the first to admit that I am entirely out of my depth, was I wrong for drawing such a conclusion?"

His question snapped me from my thoughts and I gave a little chuckle, shaking my head. "No, you are entirely correct." The thought of being courted by the consulting detective, who paid attention to every detail, warmed a place within me that I'd long though cold. "And just how, if I may be permitted to ask, are you planning on courting me?"

His expression gained a certain aloofness and he sniffed at me disdainfully. "For now I believe that shall remain my secret." Despite his stern expression, I could not fail to note the mischievous twinkle in his eye.

Now, even a month later, his plan of courtship is entirely unknown to me. At least, his formal courtship. The manner and attention he has paid to me seems a courtship all its own, though I don't believe he would see it as such, unused as he is to such romantic matters. While I am aware of the formal steps of courtship, and have engaged in such rituals in the past myself, I always found it a bit artificial. It is the details that are important and Sherlock has always given due attention to details.

For example, though he had wished to remove me from the hospital immediately, it was some seven days before I was released into his care. But everyday, everyday he returned to my bedside bringing books, more ink and other odd bits to keep me occupied. He spoke to me for hours on end, fleshing out his previous explanation as to how we had ended up in the situation we had found ourselves in. My favorite distraction, however, was his violin.

I was surprised that he had it. He usually did not allow it to leave Baker Street for fear that it would be damaged. When I questioned him about it, he tilted his head and offered a peculiar smile.

"I thought it might be useful."

And indeed it was. I would stake my reputation as a doctor on the fact that I left the hospital as soon as I did because of that much loved instrument. Sherlock spent many an hour playing, chasing the demons of my dreams away and I heartily believe that it was not just I, but the entire ward that benefited from playing.

But now we are home once more in Baker Street. I am still very ill and Sherlock has explained that he will not begin his courtship until I am at full capacity once more. I look forward to that day with ever growing anticipation and delight for I wonder how he could possibly court me any more than he already has. We are rediscovering one another as we had not after Reichenbach, both too frightened to approach the other. Perhaps the most delightful thing that I have found thus far was Sherlock's realization that in order to take care of me, he must first take care of himself. He has been eating and sleeping on a regular basis, declaring to all that he shall not take another case until I could once more be at his side.

At his side. I left London, left England to escape him only to discover that in the end there was no escape, for either one of us. I don't know if we will succeed as lovers, but I do know that we will be embarking on this new path, as we should with every endeavor, together.

John H. Watson, 1894

End Ch. 18

A/N: *deep breath* So? This and the next chapter are the big ones and next we shall see this from Holmes's point of view. I hope you like it! Sorry for the wait.