Author's Note:

You may well need tissues. I did.

Btw, the "Helen" mentioned is Helen Lestrade nee Watson, Sherlock Holmes's goddaughter, a creation of yours truly. You can learn more about her in my one-shot "Requiem for a Friend."

To my reviewers:

bemj11: Thank you!

Shizuku Tsukishima749: Wow, thank you very muc! =) And good to know it's not just me thinking he's softer. ;D

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, and Professor James Moriarty were (allegedly) created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and reside within the public domain. The cartoon incarnations, Beth Lestrade, and Sir Evan Hargreaves belong to their creators. The non-SH22 flashbacks and Helen Watson are © Aleine Skyfire 2011. All rights reserved.


==2. Alone and Wide Awake==

Rating: K+
Summary: After the events of FALL, Sherlock Holmes finds himself overwhelmed with the enormity of his situation.

Pairing(s): Holmes/Watson friendship
Warnings: tissues may be required

Word Count: 878

Beth Lestrade has graciously allowed me the possession of Watson's journals.

"Do you miss him?"

"More than I care to admit."

Far more than I care to admit. Even in a second lifetime on this side of eternity, it seems that I retain my tendency to be… how did Helen put it?… tight-lipped. I still abhor the very notion of allowing others to see me emotionally vulnerable.

And then to see that machine—a compudroid, Beth Lestrade called it—attempt to take on the voice and personality of John Hamish Watson… It's almost too much. Perhaps I should be grateful that the voice sounds nothing like Watson, the real Watson; perhaps I should be grateful that the "assistant" attitude is played up a bit too far, like the plays and films based off of Watson and Doyle's collaborations…

I shouldn't be resentful, I know that. At any rate, it would be the height of absurdity to resent a machine. But if that… thing… thinks that it can take the place of my dearest friend, well… it is about to find out how wrong it is. Perhaps someday I can accept it as a "friend" in its own right—it does have a remarkable ability to demonstrate humanity—and perhaps I shall one day be able to call it "Watson."

But not just yet.

John and I are parted by death yet again, but, ironically, it is through a rebirth of my own in which I had no say. It is… I want to say "unfair," but the truth is that this new Scotland Yard will need me if this master criminal turns out to be like Professor James Moriarty. Not unfair, then, but more than a bit irritating and… disturbing. No man should have the power to recall another man from beyond the grave.

No, wait.

Lestrade and Hargreaves himself may think that his scientific prowess has restored me to life, but the fact is that science can only reanimate the body, restore a heartbeat. No amount of scientific procedure can return the spirit to the body. Had only mortal means been involved, they would have found that they had only an empty, soulless shell left to them.

Once you have eliminated the possible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Therefore, I must treat my resurrection as an act of my Creator. Like the mythical King Arthur, I must return to an England that needs me.

But, oh, dear God, it is almost more than I can bear!

Following Watson's death, I lived for just a few months longer, passing away three months shy of my eightieth birthday. My heart—I had been having cardiac troubles—simply ceased to beat in my sleep. That Christmas was a truly difficult one for the Watson family.

I do not like to think back on those bleak, empty months between mine and Watson's deaths, but I find myself doing so now. I was more than willing to answer the summons to come Home… I missed my Watson so terribly, knew that he was the stronger man for enduring nearly three years of believing me dead from 1891 to 1894. I could never have done the same.

"Ready to take on another case, Holmes?"

My dear Watson, you have no idea how ready I was.

"Holmes?"

"Good Lord, Watson, what in blazes are you doing out when you're ill?"

Dear God, no! Don't let me relive this, please

"I wanted to see you."

"My dear fellow, don't you think you had better wait until you… No…"

"Eileen let me come. The children have… said their goodbyes. They understand."

The memory can be such a cruel thing. In retrospect, I do not envy Mycroft his eidetic memory—such a crystal-clear recollection of my entire life might have destroyed me.

"C-come upstairs? Can you?"

"Yes, I think so…"

"Let me help."

I wish that this, my last mortal memory of my best friend, were not so mercilessly clear.

"Watson… why…"

"Because I wanted to be home. And I wanted to be with you. …I'm sorry… this is hurting too much, isn't it? I should have thought of that…"

"No! No, Watson, don't you dare apologise! I would have it no other way!"

"I know…"

I've fallen back upon my bed without realising it, here in this cheerful guest bedroom on the estate of Sir Evan Hargreaves. Too cheerful. I'm… I am quite literally falling apart, and the bright, playful décor of the room merely mocks me.

"Lieder. Shall I play Lieder for you?"

"…no."

"No?"

"What was… that pretty little thing… you played that night… our first night back here? In '94?"

"I never named it."

"Play that… would you?"

"Of course, my dear fellow."

Ironic that he died on the fourth of May, the forty-sixth anniversary of Reichenbach. Sooner or later, I have always found my life—lives, now—coming full circle.

I saw him smile slowly, saw his eyes shine. Saw his lips silently form my name. I knelt beside him, my brain already knowing and my heart unwilling to accept that… there would be no pulse. Those glassy hazel eyes stared straight through me, and… oh, God…

Oh, dear God in Heaven, I can't do this. I… I… c-caaan't…


Author's Note:

*bows head* I think you get the picture that he was beginning to cry. Poor Sherlock… Honestly, though, I just can't see him handling this issue any other way. (And, yes, I did cry over writing this.)

Btw, in my personal canon, both Watson and Holmes died in 1937, at the ages of 83 and 79 respectively.

Holmes's memories came from a story of mine, "81. Whisper," found only in my Kindle ebook, At the Mercy of the Mind: A Journey into the Depths of Sherlock Holmes. You can link to the American Amazon page for the book from my profile—the book can also be found on the UK and German versions of Amazon.

Next Monday, we have something not quite so angsty: Lestrade's first impressions of the Great Detective. Stay tuned!

Please review!