Author's note:I am sorry. I really am. But I promise that this will be the last mean cliffhanger.
How can Sherlock Holmes save John Watson?
I have no idea.
John is extremely determined to unlove me but fortunately very inefficient. No matter how much he concentrates on my flaws, his love for me does not stop.
(Of course not. His error in reasoning is that he knew all my flaws before falling in love with me. His strategy is bound to fail but who am I to give him ideas about how to improve his unloving business?)
What bothers me more is that I do not know how to help him. Not at all. So I stumble along, cursing my own helplessness as much as I curse Mary's brutal efficiency.
When I (kind of) have a heart-to-heart-talk with Daddy he claps my shoulder five times. (Not good. Every number higher than two is usually reserved for disaster.)
"If you tell me now that my heart will lead me the way I am going to puke right onto the kitchen table. " I (politely) inform him.
He just smiles at me sadly and claps my shoulder a sixth time.
"Do you know what the problem is, Sherlock?" Mummy asks a day later. Not waiting for my answer she goes on, "No matter what you both might think, John has not hit bottom yet."
I am afraid that she is right about that. I had my bottom-hitting in the form of a big red bus. John, on the other hand, is still spiralling downwards.
###
When all his attempts to un-love me fail John becomes angry. It is a low-boiling, dangerous kind of anger. It is a mixture of self-loathing and despair and fear. It is a scary mixture.
It boils and boils just below the surface of John's already battered soul and I know that when it erupts I will be standing right in the centre of it.
And that is exactly what happens one day. We are in the dunes, spending another painfully awkward December noon together. John is silent most of the time. I am carefully walking on the thin ice of peace and we both know I am not good at it.
When the old man from the bakery passes by I keep myself from spilling out my deduction about what the doctor told him that morning. But it must have been visible on my face for John makes the most unpleasant snorting noise through his nose.
The best bet would be to ignore it but Emmi has had a bad night and hence so did I and I am cranky. "What?" I ask irritated.
John looks at me (surprised, for I usually ignore such provocations). Instead of answering he just shakes his head and snorts once more.
I know that this is another opportunity to drop the matter but I am really cranky and tired and cold and so I hiss instead, "It really wouldn't hurt you to answer me, you know?"
He stops abruptly and holds my stare. Then he growls, "Why don't you deduce what I want to say, genius?" Before I even fully understand what he is trying to say for real ("you're a show-off" and "how often do you deduce me and my misery even though I don't want you to?") he goes on, "It's the one thing you never fail to do, right?"
I deduce (of course) that he is angry because to him it seems like I dealt with the aftermath of the cellar a lot better than him.
What he does not know is that his comment hits home.
"I did fail," I offer. (Hate how small my voice sounds all of a sudden.) "I was not able to deduce anything after you took me off the rope."
Something in his pose changes. He did not know that. Of course not. Without me talking, how could he have known? Still, something (unpleasant) is working inside his mind now. Easy to deduce once again. He thinks he should have known. He realises that he just hurt me but he also realises how long I must have been oblivious to what happened behind my back when he killed her and Big Boy.
And it becomes just another example of the hurt he caused.
No! He must not think that. "Don't ..." I start and (without thinking) reach for his arm, try to make him stay.
At that, all his anger erupts. He pushes my arm away, more forcefully than necessary. It hits me by surprise. (Stupid me!) Before I can help it, his push sends me off the planks and into the sand.
No hurt done to my body because I (gracelessly) land on my butt. But there is hurt done - to John. He stares at me unbelievingly. Then I can see more self-hatred rolling over his face in heavy waves.
He turns on his heels and rushes off.
I am left behind cursing my own stupidity and his anger and the world as a whole and when Mrs Sonderson passes by I tell her about her husband cheating on her with the police officer and wince when that does not make me feel any better.
I need some time to blow off steam before I can go to see John again. When I finally reach his holiday home he is packing.
I look at him sharply. Neither of us says a word but there is a flood of dialogue exchanged silently.
I wordlessly tell him that I know what he intends to do back in Scotland and that he cannot be serious and how he is about to end my life as well and that I will do anything just to keep him here.
He silently tells me that he is aware of all that and that he is sorry because I still care for him and that nothing I can do or say will change his mind.
Realisation slowly sinks into my brain. I cannot stop him. For a while, I watch him continue packing. I should do something, say something but my brain is strangely empty.
When he is finished packing, he straightens his back and faces me again.
This is goodbye, his eyes tell me. And this time for good.
I almost laugh when my mind registers the fact that we are saying goodbye for good for the third time now. Seems like not only all good things come in threes.
I want to laugh out loud but the sound gets caught in my throat. A terrible whimpering comes out instead.
We stand opposite each other for a while. Finality is settling down around us. One tear does not count as crying, right? I should say something. Something profound. Something to make him stay.
"Don't let her win," is all I can come up with.
John looks at me with more pain in his eyes than ever before. "She has already won, Sherlock," he answers quietly.
No. NO. Nonono. I know that he can read the "no" from my face, just like he read everything else. It just does not stop him. He hails a cab by phone and turns to me afterwards. "Don't see me off," he (commands? asks? pleads?) says.
I won't. There is no reason to wait for his cab. Instead, I leave without a word. Drive back to Wittdün, park the car, sit down on a bench from where I can see the ferry landing. Watch John's cab arrive at the harbour. Watch him board the ferry. Watch the ferry leave.
Think of all the things I should have said when there was still time.
Author's note: The biggest thanks to my three wonderful betas. This fic would not be what it is today without you. 3