Content Notice: This story briefly contains what is not intended to be, but some readers may interpret as, suicidal ideation.
Watson was on the top of the lighthouse fighting for his life. Holmes was on the path well away from the top of the lighthouse, and the only way he would be able to reach it in time to save his friend would be to fly. He knew as much, but that didn't stop him from running as hard as he could and screaming at the top of his lungs, as if by sheer force of will he could split this skin of his back into two gashes and sprout wings to stop the brute who seemed intent on cracking Watson's head with his bare hands.
Holmes' shoulder blades had never before ached for want of wings, but they did now. He couldn't fly, he wasn't fast enough, Watson was slowly losing the fight, and Holmes screamed and screamed, falling to his knees as Watson finally lost it altogether. His attacker had landed him a horrible blow to the head right before they left Holmes' view around the back of the tower. The next moment, however, Watson's body plunged over the side of the railing, past jagged rocks, and into the merciless sea below.
Holmes' own scream echoed in his ears as he watched it disappear, and he was aware of a hundred different things at once: the heat of the sun on his back, the tightness in his throat, his mouth open and gaping dumbly, his chest heaving, his hands shaking, the light gliding over his eyes painfully hard. He'd stopped screaming at some point, and the silence falling in its place was deafening.
This was wrong. He was not supposed to be alive in a world where Watson was dead. He'd promised himself a long time ago that he would not allow the dangers of his profession to cause Watson harm. And now he'd failed because he didn't have wings.
He rose to his feet, moving automatically towards the lighthouse, vaguely knowing that he would kill Watson's murderer or die trying. All was quiet as he entered the lighthouse. Particles of dirt and dust swirling around him as if mocking him as he climbed the winding stairs. You are made of us, they told him, and we will outlive you and you will return to us.
When he finally emerged from the darkness of the stairs through a tiny trapdoor into the light of the sun, there was no one there. All was quiet. Somehow, his bird had flown. He walked to the edge of the balcony, grasping the railing and looking down into the waves.
It was almost beautiful, really, the way they crashed against the rocks over and over as if they always had and always would. It was rather nice, looking down on them. He wanted to step off the balcony and walk high above the waves and look down on them. He wanted to walk higher and higher for miles and miles until he either fainted from exhaustion or made it to the sun.
He had almost lifted one knee up onto the railing when he heard a soft groan. It snapped him out of his trance-like state and he turned, really looking this time, not just to see if an opponent was there. It was Watson. He was beaten and bloodied and collapsed in a half-concealed heap, but alive, thank God, alive. Good old Watson must have been able to get the better of his opponent at the last. Holmes quickly set himself to tending his friend, kneeling beside him awkwardly and holding his handkerchief to the nasty gash on his head.
"Watson?" he questioned. "Are you with me, Watson?"
The doctor's eyes fluttered. "Alive," he groaned, his breaths shallow.
"Hah!" Holmes huffed softly. "Call yourself alive? I promise you, I've seen corpses more convincing."
"Alive," Watson repeated, sucking in a breath, "and not likely to take that for granted again."
"Nor I," Holmes whispered so softly he was certain Watson hadn't heard.
Watson blinked a few times more, finally focusing through the pain and giving Holmes a small smile to ensure he was going to live even though blood still surged through Holmes' makeshift bandage.
"Gravity," Holmes said, hoisting his friend to his feet.
"Hmm?" Watson hummed, his eyes betraying that he was dazed and in pain.
"I've been thinking about gravity lately, Watson. One can feel it up here, how strong it is. Dragging us down like an anchor in our skin. But there will be a day we are not bound by it, Watson. Not in our lifetimes, but one day. One day men will fly."
"Nonsense," Watson mumbled, leaning on Holmes and trusting his friend completely to guide him.
"Maybe so," Holmes conceded, faithfully grasping his friend in return and ensuring he wouldn't fall. Below them, a small crowd was gathering and the local police were trying to keep the people back.
"I don't want to fly," Watson sighed, "but I do want to rest."
"Then by all means," Holmes replied, "Let's go home."
-sfarsit-
Author's Note:
This story started off as playing around with "something happens to Watson and Holmes goes into shock." I ended up vaguely using that concept in "Sherlock Holmes and the Changing Age" and this took on a life of it's own centered around Cassian's poem.
Temptation
Call yourself alive? Look, I promise you
that for the first time you'll feel your pores opening
like fish mouths, and you'll actually be able to hear
your blood surging through all those lanes,
and you'll feel light gliding across the cornea
like the train of a dress. For the first time
you'll be aware of gravity
like a thorn in your heel,
and your shoulder blades will ache for want of wings.
Call yourself alive? I promise you
you'll be deafened by the sound of dust falling on furniture,
you'll feel your eyebrows turning to two gashes,
and every memory you have–will begin
at Genesis.
By Nina Cassian
Translated from the Romanian by Brenda Walker and Adrea Deletant