Notes: Oh, my. I am so happy! There are FIVE people who have read and reviewed!! *squeal* And the reviews have been so very positive! This makes me dreadfully happy-I thank you all: The Phantomess of the Opera, The Beatles Sherlock Holmes Fa, Lady Sally, Seirai-chan, and Pompey. Thank you all so very much. Sorry, I felt the need to get all emotional about it.
Disclaimer: Well. If I owned Sherlock Holmes, I would probably be very rich. However, I am hardly wealthy; therefore I cannot possibly own Sherlock Holmes.
Genuine
Holmes loathes things that are false. He has since he was a child.
Hence why he became a detective: he had to, simply had to discover the truth in everything. He had to separate the real from the surreal and the lie from the truth.
This detestation of deceit is partially why he dislikes women-women with their paints and their powders that conceal who they are-that make masks of pure femininity that they hide behind, acting demure and coy and sweet when they are really waspish and bitter and petty.
However, for all his hatred of falsehoods, the detective has told his share of lies as well. He has told Watson that he has never loved, that he cannot love. This is a gross untruth. Holmes has loved. He still does.
To tell the absolute, complete, and perfect truth, Holmes loves Watson.
Watson is true-truer than everything else in Holmes' complicated life. He is dependable, and he is honest. Beautifully, wonderfully honest. Watson is all that is real and good, and he is Holmes' anchor, he helps him to see the truth. Watson is kind and caring, and his friendship with Holmes is genuine, as well as the regard he holds for the sleuth. Holmes wishes that their truth could change-that the amity, the affection between them might become even more real-that it might become Love, which is the truest thing in the world, after Watson.
Holmes might have been able to admit his feelings to himself, but will he ever be able to tell the truth to Watson?