Fic for KCScribbler: After, Ever After

[methylviolet10b]

Title: After, Ever After
Recipient: kcscribbler
Author: rabidsamfan
Rating: G
Characters: Holmes, Watson
Warnings: character deaths, angst, chronology musings
Summary: The War is over and much has been lost, and yet some things can still be found.
Disclaimer: – Credit must go to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, for creating a world where the people are quite real and the timing is quite impenetrable.


December 19, 1918





The funeral was over; the second Mrs. Watson laid snug to rest alongside four of her children, all victims of the influenza which had refused to make a proper sweep of it. The disease had touched my friend Watson, of course, but lightly, leaving him upright however bereft. He stood now by the grave, his formal black attire still creased from wartime exile, accepting the condolences of his fellow mourners with that air of stiff-upper-lip which I have long associated with a falling barometer and cheerful excuses to avoid long walks on an aching leg.

Beside the new-turned earth an older stone marked the place where Mary Morstan Watson slept with the boychild who had not breathed long enough to need naming in her arms. I had missed that funeral, and the one which had come before, although only a depression in the grass marked the place where the stone with my own name had stood for three long years. I'd missed Henry Watson's funeral too, and knew my younger self well enough to be aware that I'd not have left my case in France to attend the solemnities even had Watson sent word to me of his brother's demise.

I read the other gravestones as Watson paid the preacher and the sexton. Here were Watson's parents, dead within a month of each other while he was still at university. Here was a sister who had never seen twenty, and here a row of tiny headstones for siblings who had failed in infancy.

With a sudden insight I understood precisely what had driven Watson to believing the handsome widow with the two healthy children when she'd claimed that the babe in her belly was his. Understood why Watson had ever sought comfort in her arms for that matter, for Ermintrude Bellevue had been unabashedly emotional in her pursuit of a second husband and openly affectionate; whereas I, shaken by that ghastly affair with the Garridebs, had been bitterly determined to reconstruct my mask of cold logic and detachment. I'd been glad, glad! when Watson left Baker Street for marriage and a medical practice the second time, certain that my work would be all the better for a lack of emotional entanglements.

And I'd been wrong.

Without a companion with whom to share my thoughts, my thoughts had seldom been worth sharing. Without a companion with whom to share the danger, danger had lost its appeal. Without a companion to remind me to eat and sleep, my health, already precarious from years of neglect, had failed me. Watson had done his best to strike a balance between his new life and Baker Street, visiting nearly every week and accompanying me now and then to the pleasant warmth of the Turkish bath, or to Simpsons, where we would dine on oysters and the illusion that nothing had changed between us. I know that he scanted his patient list to collaborate with me upon a case whenever I truly needed him, despite Ermintrude Watson's expressions of uncertainty over the propriety of a practicing physician engaging in that sort of thing.

Still, it was a matter of months, not years, before I chose to retire, grateful to Mycroft's management of my investments for the chance to immure myself in Sussex, miles away from a London that was changing all too quickly, and worlds away from Watson, transfigured into dutiful husband and doting father. For some time I lost myself in abstruse chemical analyses, until by chance a queen bee made her home in my garden and gifted me a new field of study.

"Still here, Holmes?" Watson's voice brought me back to the present, and I started up to my feet, knowing that my knees would dun me come morning for daring to crouch down to read the inscriptions.

"Of course, old fellow," I replied, easily, accepting the hand which Watson offered, but only for balance. Under my fingertips I could feel the infinitesimal earthquakes of exhaustion which racked my oldest friend. "I intend for you to come to Sussex with me – at least for a few days – so you can get some rest."

"Rest?" Watson repeated dully, and then blinked and shook his head. "I don't want to impose upon you," he began.

"You're not," I said, as masterfully as I knew how. "And I insist." I knew, none better, how desperately Watson would be seeking sleep, and how badly his dreams would betray him. So it had been in the past, when the survivors of Maiwand had begun to follow their lost comrades into the everlasting dark. Watson would receive a letter, or a telegram, and excuse himself for a day or two, and then come back home to Baker Street enshrouded in a quiet sorrow which might last for days, or weeks, depending on how close he had been to the dead man. The few funerals we had shared had had much the same effect, and nothing to be done about it but console the night with Mendelssohn and avert it was to divert my own black moods.

"I can’t leave my car here," Watson demurred stubbornly. "And I'm needed in London. This epidemic..."

"I came by train," I countered. "And if you would prefer to be useful, there are plenty of potential patients in Sussex, and far too few medical men." I frowned, remembering seeing the black crepe at a neighbor's door. "The influenza has not spared the countryside any more than it has the city."

"Ah." It was a measure of Watson's weariness that his eyes didn't brighten at the call of duty, nor did his shoulders straighten. But he nodded agreement, as I knew he would. "I had not thought of that."

"Come along, my dear fellow, if we start now we can be home before nightfall."

The car, a small pre-war model which I knew from the night when Watson and I had foiled Von Bork's plans for once and for all, was parked near the sole inn of the little village, guarded by a small boy sitting upon the fender with his nose parked in a book. One of Watson's, I observed with amusement. I diverted the child while Watson collected his luggage and exchanged condolences with the proprietor of the inn. The two old men were contemporaries, I gathered, and the innkeeper's sons had both died in the trenches where Watson had spent so much of the past four years. It was a salutary reminder of how much of Watson's life remained outside my ken. Even now I knew little of the boy who had spent his school holidays living in the gray stone house beyond the churchyard, and scarcely more of the soldier who had tended to spend his brief hours away from the battlefields of France trying to mend the fraying bonds of family. Ermintrude had never been best pleased with Watson’s return to the military, when at his age he could have remained safely prospering in England. It was one of the few subjects upon which we held complete agreement, she and I, although we had differed on whether it were possible to dissuade him from his duty.

I did not attempt to convince Watson that he should allow me to drive -- I merely asserted the necessity, citing my knowledge of the roads, still lacking in signage in many places despite the Armistice, and took my place behind the wheel. The decision was fortuitous in that it gave Watson little to do but sleep, and sleep he did, but it gave me far too much time to contemplate the changes which grief and war had wrought. There was a scar on his neck, below his left ear --something sharp had struck him there, and recently enough that the mark had not yet had time to whiten. His hair had whitened though. Not a trace remained of the soft brown I remembered brightening to gold like corn under summer suns. The laughter lines near his eyes were shallower, the frown lines near his lips deeper. He was too pale. Too thin. And even in sleep his hands twitched and clenched around phantom surgical tools.

Between my own contributions to the War Effort, and Mrs. Watson’s jealousy of her husband’s scant visits to British soil, I had seen Watson but three times since the start of hostilities. Twice at the Diogenes, where we had dined together at Mycroft's invitation, and once at Westminster Abbey, when my brother was accorded the only public accolade which the country had ever been able to foist upon him. That funeral had been far too long, and the speeches far too pompous, and Watson and I, both giddy with weariness and grief, had kept each other awake by exchanging whispered deductions as to just what pungent commentary Mycroft might have supplied to leaven the interminable encomiums being heaped upon his memory. Another man might not have taken comfort from such morbid humor, but I did, and I was grateful to Watson for indulging my peculiarities.

And yet, much later that night, when Watson and I stood beside the steaming boat train that would carry him back to the Front, I had taken a more lasting comfort from the spontaneous embrace with which he’d gifted me. He'd mumbled something about missing Mycroft against my collar, and then stood back, measuring me with knowing eyes. “You’ll be all right, alone?” he’d asked, doubting.

“Of course,” I’d said then, thinking that it was true. Now, with the memory of the shadowed weeks which followed, I knew better. It was the memory of that moment which had been my shield against the bitterness of loss. The warmth of Watson’s arms around me, the scratch of the resurgence of his beard against my cheek, the tang of the brandy we'd shared over our suppers, even the acrid taint of gas that had permeated the wool of his uniform, never to be washed away. The honest strength of his regard for me, more articulate in a simple touch than in a thousand words on paper. Watson might have been in France when I finally wept for my brother, but I was not without him, nonetheless.

And if I, a man who had never sought affection, had gained such solace from so simple a thing, then what of Watson? Surely he would benefit from a similar gesture. It was only logical. But having reached that conclusion still dozens of miles from our destination, I began to doubt my capacity to be the one to make it. It had been sixteen long years since Baker Street. Years in which I had, for the most part, neglected our friendship. If Watson’s visits to Sussex were rare, so too were my visits to his house in Kensington. It was not for lack of invitation. Watson would have welcomed me to his table on any visit I made to London, and to her credit, Mrs. Watson would have welcomed me too, during those early years. But I did not go. I could not bear to see how happy he was, there without me. I flinched away from knowing that his stepsons worshipped him, and that the tiny girl who had caused all the trouble was the light of her father’s eye. He was a marvellous father, my Watson, and yet all I could think of when he bent his head to listen patiently to a lisping confidence was the years he had wasted his talents on me instead of becoming the paterfamilias which was so obviously his proper destiny.

The road spun away beneath the car as the sun moved across the sky. I stopped once to purchase petrol, and Watson roused long enough to turn his face to find me before settling back into sleep once more as I began the second half of the drive.

I did not know when the cracks began to show in his marriage. Before 1906, when their youngest child was born, no doubt. But the trouble had been planted from the start. Ermintrude had never been content with Watson’s income from the practice, of that I good cause to know. His reluctant request to me for permission to test the waters of public interest with a new tale of our adventures had come early on in the marriage, when I was yet in London and they still lived in the cramped quarters on Queen Anne street. The response of the readers startled both of us. I’d only allowed him to publish the Baskerville case as a posthumous memoir, and yet I swear it paid for the house he bought. And not soon after my retirement he came to me, his hat quite literally in his hand, and asked to tell the tale of my return.

That permission I gladly granted, knowing that it was no easy task for a man of his years to establish himself anew; and for all that, writing was as much his profession as medicine had ever been. For two years the words fell readily from his pen, tributes to a life we both had left behind. But then, as his children grew, and his practice prospered, the words came more sporadically. The visits even less so. He saw Mycroft more than I, resting within the companionable silences of the Diogenes every Thursday evening like clockwork, and it was there I met with him now and then. But even in the Strangers’ Room our words were scant, those years. It was not Watson’s fault, not entirely, for I had little interest in the small doings of his household, and would turn the topic to past glories when I could. By the time I went to America, to serve my country in a different way than he once had served her, the damage was truly done. I could convince myself that Watson was a friend of the same sort as Harold Stackhurst was in Sussex before the War. Someone to talk to, now and then, but not an intimate. Not someone who would confide in me the reasons why his hat had taken on a layer of dust.

And now we came to the last few miles, the roads winding gently along the green of the downs, past the villages where lights shone out defiantly from windows that had been too long darkened by fear. To the last few stretches of memory as well.

I did think to drop Watson a note before I vanished from England’s shores in 1912. Just a line or two to say that I would be travelling and difficult to reach. Had I not been sworn to secrecy I might even have told him why I was going. If ever a man understood the need to serve his country it is Watson! But it was finding the tale of the Culverton Smith case in a four month old magazine in the spring of ‘14 which reminded me that he’d had no word of me for over a year. And more, it reminded me of how he had forgiven me, not once, but twice, for being alive and well. I had forgotten. I did ask him, once, if he’d written the tale to remind me that he was waiting for word, but he said no. He’d written it to remind himself that I had a way of turning his grief to joy.

I did not think I could turn his grief to joy now.

He’d written during the War too. Not tales of our adventures together, although he did resurrect an old manuscript to publish a chapter at a time as a supplement to his Army stipend at the behest of his wife and his literary agent. No, during the War he wrote letters, brief missives to me, describing the people he met and attempting deductions to please or amuse me; dispatches to Mycroft describing the inimical conditions where he laboured to keep men from dying. Unguarded, unpolished prose, snipped here and there by the censor’s scissors, chronicling the relentless transformation of optimism into endurance, and endurance holding out as best it could against despair.

After Watson’s oldest stepson was lost at Verdun, after Mycroft had fallen too, and I gave over being my brother’s agent in an attempt to somehow be my brother, Watson began a new story for publication. “His Last Bow” he’d called it, and I’ve good reason to believe that he’d meant it for his own farewell and not just mine. Why else step back from the narrative, to pretend that it was some other hand that drove his pen? The east wind had blown for three long years, by then, and no sign of stopping before all was sere and sterile. But it stopped just the same, Watson had not withered before it.

Eastbourne Road, Millersgate Road, The Gables. The car rocked as we made the turn down the lane to my villa and Watson awoke, coming alert to scan the nightshrouded countryside for danger. But this time when he found me beside him it was no comfort to him remember where he was or why. I felt more than saw him stiffen his spine against his grief, knew without looking that he was assembling a mask to play the courteous houseguest, due to depart in the proper way when his welcome had worn thin.

“Not long now,” I said, slowing the car to save the tyres from the hazardous ruts. I could see the black shape of my roof edging up into the starlit sky.

“Thank you,” Watson said gruffly, watching the pool of light from the headlights move along the grass. “I should have taken a turn at driving.”

“I didn’t mind.”

We topped the rise and the Channel spread out beneath us, the little lights marking the ships moving peacefully upon the water. I drew up next to the garden wall and shut down the car, and Watson and I sat in silence a while, letting our eyes adapt to the dim light of the stars before rousing ourselves to deal with the practicalities of our arrival.

It did not take long. We had a routine, of sorts, left over from the days when he would find a specialist to chase me out of London for a week or two to rest at some remote cottage where my friend would watch over me with the help of a girl from the village and not infrequent references to his medical bona fides. Each of us brought inside a valise with nightshirt and toothbrush before I turned my hand to the lamps and the fires and he to the linens and the teakettle. The heavy luggage we left in the car, waiting for the morning and a sturdy lad in need of sixpence. It was no time at all until the two of us were sitting in chairs by the fire, warming our toes and hands as the teakettle rumbled softly on the hob.

The long drive was catching up for me, and I felt my head begin to nod, but “She wanted a divorce, you know,” Watson said suddenly. “After Robin died in France. She said he’d never have enlisted if I hadn’t done it first.”

He was staring into the fire, although I doubted he saw the flames.

“I don’t even think she loved me by the end. If it hadn’t been for the children, I don’t think she would have stayed.” He put his face into his hands, muffling his words. “If it hadn’t been for the children, I’d have been glad to let her go.”

I reached for him then, all hesitation forgotten, and drew him into the circle of my arms and held him until the dam broke and he began to weep. Words tumbled out of him then, stories sobbed against the growing damp patch on my shoulder, a litany of grief going back through the years, Ermintrude and Katie and Sophie and Jack. Mycroft and Robin and soldiers he’d known for scant hours before they succumbed. Mary and the baby. His brother Harry. His comrades at Maiwand. Me, for three long years.

At last the tears ebbed, though he still clung to me. “How do I do it, Holmes?” he whispered to my sleeve. “How do I stay alone? I’ve never had the knack.”

“You don’t,” I told him, and stepped back a pace, my hands still on his shoulders so that he could not help but see my promise and the future on my face. “You stay here.”

Comments

[swissmarg]

Oh wow, that was so... I don't even have the words right now. Sad, yes, but also wonderful that Watson was able to live that part of his life and character that Holmes could never give him. And that despite the fact that they drifted apart in many ways, their basic connection remained untarnished and unwavering. Loved this.

[rabidsamfan.livejournal.com]

Thank you. I'm glad you liked it.

[omelton.livejournal.com]

Oh, how sad! I am amazed at your Watson's resilience and ability to survive so much loss and pain, anon author - and I'm glad that Holmes finally, finally is trying to patch up their friendship. The image of the two of them making snide comments at Mycroft's funeral to cheer each-other up will definitely stay with me for a while.
A lovely piece of sadness with just a little sparkle of hope at the end.

[rabidsamfan.livejournal.com]

I've always felt that Watson has an inner strength that doesn't get enough appreciation. Glad you liked this. Thanks.

[sherlockholmes.livejournal.com]

I'm beginning to think I won't make it out of this fest alive. The work has been so tragic and so excellent thus far! This story paints such a lovely picture of the way a friendship changes and shifts and -- not quite fades or grows thinner, but just isn't the same -- as life moves forward. I really think this part:

But even in the Strangers’ Room our words were scant, those years. It was not Watson’s fault, not entirely, for I had little interest in the small doings of his household, and would turn the topic to past glories when I could. By the time I went to America, to serve my country in a different way than he once had served her, the damage was truly done. I could convince myself that Watson was a friend of the same sort as Harold Stackhurst was in Sussex before the War. Someone to talk to, now and then, but not an intimate. Not someone who would confide in me the reasons why his hat had taken on a layer of dust.

is my favourite, because of what it says not only about their friendship, but also because of the little hints of guilt over it on the part of Holmes. He does seem sorry it went the way it did. Hindsight, and all that.

You highlighted Watson's struggle with the deaths of his friends/wives/colleagues so well throughout the narrative that by the end when he finally broke I really felt the weight on him, and it was fascinating to see John's emotion and sadness looked upon and measured by Sherlock's mind, it was an excellent choice to write it the way that you did.

Wonderful story :)

[fabelschwester.livejournal.com]

I'm beginning to think I won't make it out of this fest alive.

THIS. A thousand times.

[fabelschwester.livejournal.com]

Hi very talented anon, if you want to keep count on the people you made tear up, there's one.

[rabidsamfan.livejournal.com]

*readies the kleenex to hand out*

Thank you. That's quite a compliment.

[jcporter1.livejournal.com]

Poor Watson. I always wondered how he stood so much grief.

[rabidsamfan.livejournal.com]

He's a fixed point of the universe, yes? Of Holmes's universe, anyway.

Thank you.

[thesmallhobbit.livejournal.com]

I like this because it doesn't leave Watson immune from events around him - he suffers as so many did. And yet there is hope for the future, because finally Holmes has come for him.

[rabidsamfan.livejournal.com]

Thank you. I couldn't just leave him alone.

[hardboiledbaby]

Oh, the weight of the grief here is palpable, poor Watson. And Holmes' wanting so badly to help, while feeling guilt for his own part of the burden. Thank you, anon, for a story of pain and loss well-told, and for the love and hope at the end.

[rabidsamfan.livejournal.com]

You're welcome. I'm glad you found the ending hopeful! (I planned it that way.)

[impulsereader.livejournal.com]

where we would dine on oysters and the illusion that nothing had changed between us. Oh, I love that, so clever and telling.

I love the account of Mycroft's funeral. It is so very them.

This is beautiful work you've done, this story is a really solid and gorgeous view of the friendship between Holmes and Watson over the years and through their lives. It is stark and lyrical and gorgeous.

[rabidsamfan.livejournal.com]

Thank you. And I'm glad you liked that line (and Mycroft's funeral). It's nice to know which bits worked well.

[hagstrom]

Oh God. It's been a while since I read a story of this kind. It's magnificent and your Holmes voice it's accurate and honest. For Watson to have re-married makes sense and I guess what happened after it's just a reflection of the historical and social context, what with the war and staying together for the children. I'm just incredibly glad they had each other at the end.

With the resurge of the Sherlock Holmes franchise, the ACD verse has been left behind a bit- if not for some persistant and frankly, incredibly good and flexible writers such as yourself- some of the later Holmesinians would have been stuck to the newer fics -which, not to be misunderstood, some are mind-blowing and good but of an entirely different kind- or perusing throught archives and fanfiction older entries. And I'm just really very thankful for that.

[rabidsamfan.livejournal.com]

Thank you. I love canon fics, and I'm glad this fest brought out so many good writers. It's going to take me a while to work through all the stories, but that's an excellent thing to know.

[mistyzeo.livejournal.com]

Oh it hurts so good. In my own Holmes experience, I don't think I acknowledge the war/retirement quite enough, but I adore it when other people can and do, and do it so well. This is a beautiful piece, and the emotions are all so full and heartbreaking and perfect, and I love the hope at the end that all can be repaired, if they just do it right. Love it.

[rabidsamfan.livejournal.com]

Thank you. I find it simultaneously incomprehensible and perfect that Watson would choose to go back into the Army, but it's canon, and right, in spite of what happened at Maiwand.

[innie_darling]

This is gorgeously sad.

[rabidsamfan.livejournal.com]

Thank you.

[kathleen cummings (from livejournal.com)]

Ya done good...but then you always do. I suspect that some of Holmes' guilt may spring from the realization that he may have...in effect...driven Watson into Emintrude's arms. While Watson has always had more emotional connections than Holmes had...or even wanted, he seems to need one special bond...and I believe that bond is with Holmes. I think he could have been happy with Mary...she came along at the perfect time in his life...he was still young, he'd regained his strength and was probably feeling the want of a home and family of his own...and she appealed to his chivalrous,protective side. Ermintrude on the other hand...emotionally cut off by Holmes...a friendly widow looking for a husband/stepfather/breadwinner...Watson never had a chance. I'm very glad that Holmes was able to step out of his "comfort zone" and offer his friend the comfort and care that he so very much needed. Now..they have a future with hope.

[rabidsamfan.livejournal.com]

Thank you. And thank you for the beta help, too.

[methylviolet10b]

This was so lovely, and poignant, and devastatingly logical in the erosion (but thankfully not destruction) of the relationship between Holmes and Watson in the years between his remarriage and 1918. I loved all the details you wove in, the flashbacks between towns as Holmes completed the long drive, and the ultimate resolution. Just all brilliantly handled. Brava, Anon!

[rabidsamfan.livejournal.com]

Thank you. And thank you for posting it so early in the fest! I was surprised to see it appear so quickly.

[fiona-fawkes.livejournal.com]

That was wonderful. Thank you so much for sharing.

[rabidsamfan.livejournal.com]

You're welcome. I'm glad you liked it.

[spacemutineer.livejournal.com]

Mmm, such a rich rendering of Holmes here, and also of his poor, ever-strong but grief-stricken Watson. The tale is painful, but in that perfect way that warms your heart as much as it aches. Such beautiful, moving work.

[rabidsamfan.livejournal.com]

Thank you. I'm glad you liked it. As I was writing I wasn't sure whether to be sorrier for Watson or for Holmes.

[kcscribbler]

This is bittersweet and beautiful and perfect on so many levels that even after a second re-reading, I barely have words to tell you how much I love it. This reminds me all over again of everything that was good and wonderful about this original universe, and it's a true work of art. Thank you so much for the time and care put into this; it will forever stick in my mind as one of those very rare, very treasured, post-retirement gems.

[rabidsamfan.livejournal.com]

I'm really glad you liked this. I had a fluff piece that wasn't working, and went rummaging through the pile of WIPS thinking "What might KCS like?" before I resurrected the first few paragraphs of this. \And then after I'd finished it and turned it in, read your prompt and realized that you had specifically asked for no character deaths. The fluff may get finished someday -- it just required more research than I had brain cells. If it does I'll let you know!

[stardust-made.livejournal.com]

Wow, what a beautiful character study—no, that would be two for the price of one, and aren't we just incredibly lucky to have you offer them to us? Wonderful work, rich in feeling, something all the more amazing for the choice of the narrator's voice. It was so good to see Holmes stay true to himself while rolling out the carpet of all that's their relationship, that's Watson, that's Watson to him. Lovely work, simply lovely.

[rabidsamfan.livejournal.com]

Thank you. I often find myself writing Holmes p.o.v., and I'm not sure why, but I think you've hit on something here -- we do get two for the price of one. Watson effaces himself so often in canon we don't even know much of what he looks like!

rsf

[equusentric.livejournal.com]

Absolutely heartachingly gorgeous.

[rabidsamfan.livejournal.com]

Thank you.

[firthivated.livejournal.com]

This was just so heart-wrenchingly poignant and perfect. There is such hope at the end and that makes me happy.

[rabidsamfan.livejournal.com]

Thank you. I'm glad you liked it.

[tripleransom.livejournal.com]

Even though the stories in this fest so far have all been so heartbreakingly sad, I'm smiling to see that people are still writing such amazing stories in the ACD-verse I love so much.

Thank you, Anon for this.

[rabidsamfan.livejournal.com]

It has been an amazing fest, hasn't it? And you're welcome. I'm glad you liked my story.

[fannishliss.livejournal.com]

reading the ACD canon and hitting the point where Holmes retires ALONE to Sussex and doesn't see Watson for THREE YEARS it just made me want to handwave and shout that ACD GOT IT WRONG.

This story is amazing because it shows how life goes on. Holmes made the wrong choice and Watson made the best of it. Both of them went on as heroes in their own right.

For you to conclude the story in Sussex with the two of them finally side by side again, with Holmes open to hearing what is really in Watson's heart, is a magnificent opening out of the constrictions of canon.

ACD GOT IT WRONG --or rather, he took the hermit in Holmes to his logical, tragic conclusion -- and you made it right again. Kudos! I do mourn for Watson's lost children -- there is no loss so heartrending. But retirement with Holmes is a chance for happiness and contentment between two convivial minds -- and that's not nothing. :D

[rabidsamfan.livejournal.com]

Thank you. I do think ACD got it wrong. Hooray for fanfiction and the chance to set things right!

[sabrinaphynn.livejournal.com]

Watson might have been in France when I finally wept for my brother, but I was not without him, nonetheless.
That started the tears, and this just broke my heart into bits:

I reached for him then, all hesitation forgotten, and drew him into the circle of my arms and held him until the dam broke and he began to weep. Words tumbled out of him then, stories sobbed against the growing damp patch on my shoulder, a litany of grief going back through the years, Ermintrude and Katie and Sophie and Jack. Mycroft and Robin and soldiers he’d known for scant hours before they succumbed. Mary and the baby. His brother Harry. His comrades at Maiwand. Me, for three long years.

At last the tears ebbed, though he still clung to me. “How do I do it, Holmes?” he whispered to my sleeve. “How do I stay alone? I’ve never had the knack.”

“You don’t,” I told him, and stepped back a pace, my hands still on his shoulders so that he could not help but see my promise and the future on my face. “You stay here.”

Hah, I love retirement era stories where these two are again together at either side of the fireplace!!

[rabidsamfan.livejournal.com]

And I love comments where people tell me what they liked! Thank you so much.

[garonne.livejournal.com]

This was brilliant. Just the right amount of hope to soften the sadness. I loved it!

[rabidsamfan.livejournal.com]

Thank you!

[titc.livejournal.com]

Very moving - the characters, their evolution, what life dealt them, age and separation and the slow unraveling of a friednship that they manage to stop and mend, what they felt and hid and *flails* I'll just go dry me tears now.
Bittersweet and beautiful!

[rabidsamfan.livejournal.com]

Thank you. I hope the tears were not too many!

[enname.livejournal.com]

Despite a shameful lack of commenting history, I have always loved your version of the ACD world and in particular your Holmes voice. Although, this is perhaps not quite correct either as I will always love your particular version of Watson. He is so well rounded and fits the canonical gaps with such ease and yet a certain aplomb. Suffice to say, I adore your writing and well, this. This is at once very beautiful, but also thrumming with life (compared to all the deaths) ... under the narrative that is Holmes' brain. I love the evening drive and how everything - their history, their errors, their friendship, the flavour of that war - is woven into that meditation.

[rabidsamfan.livejournal.com]

*blushes* Why thank you. I've always been very fond of Watson, and I guess it must show. And if you've been saving up comments just to make this one so marvelous, I think I can live with that!