Parting

I was looking for Watson. He had picked up his cloak and had left to the park that surrounded the O'Grady's manor. I put on my cloak and followed the traces he had left in the fresh snow. I did not know whether he wanted me to follow him, whether he had left his marks on purpose or if he had fled rashly to the park.

I found him in a round, open pillar building, set in between ancient trees. He lent against one of the pillars, a slim dark silhouette, and smoked. I hesitated and stood still. His contours drew soft against the night. He seemed to lean heavy against the pillar as if he had no strength left to keep himself up.

"John?"

He exhaled smoke and did not seem surprised in any way as he said:

"I expected you to dangle after me. What do you want?"

I ascended the three steps to the hall and stood still. I could see him in the fair light of the moon, that illuminated the snow, as well as his face, his outlines. The cloud of his breath carried a glimpse of his scent to me.

"I want to look into your eyes", I said.

"Do it then", he answered.

So I approached him, close, stood directly in front of him and looked him in the eyes. Looked into his beautiful, loved eyes. I looked into and saw the wavering. The doubting. The memories. And I knew in the very same moment, that John still was mine. Entirely. We were close, so incredibly close. It was all still there in this very moment. The affinity. The passion. And the grief. I said then:

"I can not live without you."

Watson decreased his head and closed his eyes. He did not say a word for a long time, just stood there leant against the pallid, his eyes closed. He rose with a deep breath, broke away from the pallid, yet did not look at me when he whispered:

"I can not either."

Watson lift his hand, looked at his cigarette, drew a last drag on his cigarette and tossed it out in the night, his gestures both erratic and violent. Indignant and despaired at the same time.

"Come back to me, John."

"I am married."

"You look infelicitous."

"I am."

"John..."

"No. No, Holmes. Stop it! You know as well as I do, how utterly impossible it is."

He looked at me. Grief in his sight. I would have liked to embrace him, but I knew he would reject me.

"We can not pay the price it has, Sherlock. You know, too."

His sight branched off, looking out into the moonlit snow, into the black skeletons of the mighty trees. I knew what he was talking about. The social repression. The constant fear of being accused. Patients turning away from him in disgust. The gossip, the suggestive comments in the Times. Doctor John Watson could not allow himself being a convicted sodomite. I could neither. Both of us had already risked our heads, were no strangers in society anymore. We tore each other into misery. We had long talks and argues about it, before Watson had decided to leave and obtained Mary as an alibi.

John searched the pockets of his cloak for another cigarette, put it nervously between his lips, lit a match. The low wind expunged it immediately. I rose my hands, put them on his, created a calm space as he lit the second match. He allowed me to. His hands were warm and shaking. His sight crossed mine. There had been so much tenderness among us, in this short moment, when our Hands had touched. John lit the cigarette and lowered his hands, slowly. I sensed the conquest he was going through. He hesitated. He, too, hesitated. Whatever there was between us, it was not over at all. And we played with fire.

"We must not see each other again", he said.

"I know."

"Well, Go."

I stopped. I could not go.

"Go!" he repeated.

"I can not."

It was a mere whisper. My voice failed. I reached out my hand, but he rejected.

"Stop it!" he hissed.

I looked him in the eyes and knew that I could reach for him again, more decisive, wear down his low resistance. His passion would arise. Mine as well. Immediately. Fiercely. Without any control. We would love, out here in snow-covered park of the O'Grady's, without restraint, no control over ourselves. We knew each other long and well enough. We recklessly played with fire.

"When will Mary expect you back?" I asked.

"That is of no concern to you."

"My door is always open, you know", I said and left.

My whole body was shaking, I walked fast and distinctly, to escape the weakness of my soul and bones. I did not return to the O'Grady's manor but called one of the cabs in front of the house to drive me home. Baker Street. I was out of senses. I stumbled up the stairs, reaching my empty, somber flat, threw myself into the chair in front of the cold chimney. What had I done! I was insane. A fool. What, if Watson really came up here? Everything from the beginning? The Pain, the despair, the tearful nights, the morphine days, the closed flat, screaming, crying, raging, helpless Mrs. Hudson, howling Mycroft in front of the barred door.

I sat shuddering in front of the chimney, both fearing and hoping that Watson would come. I feared him being as disoriented and wistful as I were to come. I hoped him to be as silly and deluded as I were and really do it. And I sensed me not having the power, overcoming either. I sat there stupefied, ranting at myself several times to be a sick maniac.

Then I heard steps on the staircase. I did not believe my ears and thought me going insane. HIS steps. He walked up hesitantly, opened the door and resigned there. I was frozen and did not move. He crossed the living room and said angrily:

"You could have at least heat up the room."

He pulled off hat and gloves, unbuttoned his cloak and started to crush some dead wood and to put wood on the cold ashes. He screwed up paper he ripped out the Times and lit the fire. Only when the flames tore greedy at the wood, he rose and looked at me. His face being a dull mask. His eyes wavering in the unsteady light the fire produced.

"We must not see each other again", he said low, "Look where it leads to. You invite me and I come. We are insane."

We looked at each other. John had come. He was here, in front of me, here in our flat. So familiar. So close. His scent, his warmth. The spitting fire. I carefully reached for his hand. Yet I did not touch him. I did not want to. I did not want to start all over again. I wanted him to leave. Make it all stop. And I wanted him. Entirely. I wanted him to stay. For ever. His fingers found mine. And in the next glimpse of an eye we were embracing. I felt heat overcoming both of us and I knew we were lost. Beyond any hope. We burrowed into each other, breathless, moaning, gasping.

His kiss was hot and intimate and I surrendered. Addicted to his skin. To him. To his soul. To all he was. To John Watson. And yet we hesitated. Churned, clawed into each other, the hands resting on the naked skin of each other. We hesitated and looked up. Both of us were heated and breathed the other, deep and longingly. Yet we tore and looked in one another's eyes. Then Watson said:

"I can not live like this, Sherlock. I am torn without you. And I am torn with you."

His eyes were beautiful yet filled with pain it took my breath. I placed my hand up on his temples.

"Love me", I begged.

His sight scrutinizing. His hand on mine.

"Yes", he whispered.

We made our bed calmly on the fur in front of the chimney. A familiar place, where we had loved each other often. We laid down close to each other and caressed tenderly and diligently. We knew each other so well, our bodies, our reactions. We meant home to one another in every way, including this one. We lead and conducted with utter presence. We loved slowly and in grief. I sensed it being a farewell. We connected deeply as I stroked the head of his penis, tenderly, and his semen welled into my hand, whilst I ejaculated at the same time in long, severe contractions. We were closely together. Completely connected to one another. We melted everything together in this very moment. Us. Our lives.

We put some wood chords on the fire, wrapped up in plaids and I watched over Watson, over his sleep in my arms, lit by the crackling fire.

As I woke in the morning the fire had deceased. The flat was cold. Watson was gone.