Fic for fabelschwester: Löse von der Welt mich los

[methylviolet10b]

Title: Löse von der Welt mich los
Recipient: fabelschwester
Author: musamihi
Rating: G
Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes (and unrequited Watson/Holmes)
Warnings: None.
Summary: Holmes and Watson attend the London premiere of Wagner's Tristan und Isolde, which has a profound effect upon the doctor.
Disclaimer/Notes: I don't own Sherlock Holmes, but, happily, neither does anyone else. The text quoted herein is from Wagner's libretto for the aforementioned opera. The translation provided is my own, sadly unpoetic and hopefully not fundamentally flawed. Thanks to sherlockholmes for beta-reading! fabelschwester, I hope you enjoy!

It was dreary for June, damp in the way that makes the dark seem thicker – and yet Holmes suggested, in that cheerfully final way which I had come to treat as insistence, that we should walk home. The distance between the Theatre Royal and our lodgings struck me as excessive, but after sitting, hot and cramped, through several hours of opera, I was more inclined than I might normally have been to go to some lengths for air and activity. And so walk we did, through a night that seemed strangely empty once we left behind the crowd flowing away from the theatre. It folded us in alone and muffled the city into silence, a soft, thick blackness, and it struck me that it was vast, and that we were very small – not a word I would normally have used to describe my friend, whom I had then known for something like a year.

But small he seemed, or at least very close by. The only sound aside from our soles striking the pavement was his animated humming. The music was unsuited to idle performance; there is precious little of Wagner that lends itself to casual repetition. But he moved, as always, at his own special sort of pace, and we strode along to the slow and weighty phrases of Tristan und Isolde.

I think he was singing from a piece of the admittedly very moving finale, but for my part all I could hear was the slow, expansive, rapturous harmony that had struck into me during the second act and taken root:

O sink hernieder, Nacht der Liebe,

gib Vergessen, dass ich lebe;

nimm mich auf in deinen Schoss,

löse von der Welt mich los! *

How I would have loved to be released from the world around me – the night, it seemed to me, had already begun to absorb the two of us, but there was too much of the material that hung in the way, too much of life and all of the oppressive obstacles it presented to allow for perfect perdition. Abstract brooding was normally Holmes' province, not mine, but tonight I felt trapped in a haze of longing and something maddeningly close to revelation that I could never express. My facility with words may not be the most artistic, but generally it serves my needs, and this sudden and exceedingly wide gap between ability and ends left me restless. There was something in those words (which I understood only in clumsy translation) that made me feel more keenly than ever that I wanted what I could not have, and would have been incapable of attaining it even if the path had been open to me, but also something that made me near ecstatic with emotion. There was potential in that darkness.

I supposed Holmes, who even when he did not have his eyes shut during the performance always appeared a little distracted, heard only the music. I doubted the words could mean very much to him, as simple and as undoubtedly sentimental as they were. Perhaps that was my trouble: perhaps I was attempting to use language for a task for which it had never been designed. What did he understand in the vibrations that I failed to make out from the libretto? Did he perceive anything at all? Was it only an amusement to him, a backdrop to a mind that made quick work of everything and must have no room for love poems? Could he reduce what I was feeling to a word or to a tune? Was he doing it now? It made me terrified and thrilled at once to think that he might be able to see what I thought I felt and what I knew I ought to hide –

"You have been introspecting assiduously," Holmes said, his voice light and teasing, "the whole way home."

"No," I replied, instantly denying all that I'd been so earnestly considering. "No – I'm only tired, I'm afraid. Wagner gave a very thorough accounting of that old story."

Holmes laughed, jutting his chin sharply out over the knot of his tie. "Thorough! Yes. Still – you mean to tell me you've not wasted another thought on that very charming young lady who had eyes only for you during the interval? And," he added with a disapproving sniff, “through much of the third act.”

I had not, as a matter of fact – indeed, I had utterly failed to notice. I tried to be sorry.

"It's no use starting things out that way," Holmes was saying, continuing over my silence, admonishing without any real force behind his words. "Music is a potion, Watson, and if we've learned one thing this evening it's what good potions may do. Be very careful of the decisions you make while under the influence of complete immersion in any sort of music. The grander it is, the worse its effects – high opera might as well be unmixed wine, for all the folly it's led to."

For a moment I wondered if he knew exactly what ideas I was entertaining under the spell of the show we'd taken in – but he could not. He would never, I thought fondly and yet very sadly, think something so terrible of me. And yet as we made our way up the quiet streets, I thought I saw him glance once or twice in my direction with a certain knowing sympathy. And that was worse than music. When we were within sight of our door, I said – rather heavily, I fear, clumsy with more meaning than I was accustomed to handle, that I trusted my own impressions; that my sentiments were heartier than those that might be swayed by a song.

"You would be a rare man if that were true," he said, and then, perhaps unwilling to take such a high hand so late at night and so long after I'd had a bite to eat, added: "Which you are, to be sure."

"You think beauty prevents a man from feeling anything genuinely?" I could not agree – tonight was the first time I thought I had felt anything genuinely in years. The music had changed something in me that had been dulled and faded by exposure, perhaps, to the unforgiving sun. I wanted him to see me as the dark had let me see him. In the gaslight, in the shadow of the house, it seemed almost possible.

"I simply don't believe there is a 'genuinely.' Sentiment is sentiment, whether raised by the way music touches the brain or by something else. That's all." He shook his head. "I hardly meant to wade into philosophy at so uncivilised an hour –"

"I think," I interrupted, unusually bold and possibly a touch too brusque, determined as I was not to let this night pass me by entirely without opportunity to say something that matched the weight of what I felt, "I think that a man feels what he feels." Which was rather what Holmes had said, and came nowhere close to approximating what I meant. I began to speak louder and more quickly; we were at our door. "I am not intoxicated. And tonight – tonight –"

"Night is quite as bad as music." He opened the door, preceding me inside with an unusual and sudden stiffness. But when he turned around as he was removing his hat, nothing in his face spoke of impatience or upset. He seemed only a little wary, and full of something soft that was not quite pity. "Wait for the sun – amazing what an antidote it is, considering how regularly we see it. We ought to be immune, surely. But wait for the sun, and see."

We bid each other good night, and I went to my bed, and I waited.

In the morning, the light pushing its way into my room was hateful; it struck everything out in great detail, in high relief, revealing everything it touched to be imperfect, unremarkable, and inescapable. No more the wonderful possibility that came with being unable to see. The night's kind cloak was gone, and with it any sense I had then had of being able to overcome the barriers with which I was presented. I could no more have been released from this world than from death. I would get no glorious oblivion.

I threw the curtains closed and I went back to bed, knowing there was no returning to the moment I had failed to seize.

* Translation: Descend, O night of love, let me forget that I'm alive; take me into your bosom, set me free from the world.

Comments

[fabelschwester.livejournal.com]

Ohh... thank you, anon!
I feel a bit like Watson I guess, I want to say something but I already know I won't be able to perfectly express what I feel. Language barrier, not being a writer... all of that.

But let me try: When I got up and saw this I was all giggly and excited to read it, it totally made my day.

And now that I'm home from work I can finally indulge and, oh! How beautifully you conjured up the mood, of being drunk on the music and the night, the feeling of the moment, like everything is possible even when it isn't. Aw, poor Watson.

This is also a very insightful character study for both Watson and Holmes.

And Wagner - very considerate of you to choose these lyrics. They fit the mood perfectly, and also I understood them, which made me feel even more that you wrote this for me. I always said I don't have the patience for Wagner, but you actually want to make me try again. (Also, I distinctly remember Canon Holmes having an opinion on Wagner, but I could be wrong. Will try to dig that up!)

In any case, this is a very sad story, but it's also very, very beautiful. Thank you. ♥

[fabelschwester.livejournal.com]

Found it - It's introspective .
Spot on, anon.

[jcporter1.livejournal.com]

Wow! That was great! So close and yet so far.

[impulsereader.livejournal.com]

I absolutely love Holmes's views on music and opera in particular. The grander it is, the worse its effects – high opera might as well be unmixed wine, for all the folly it's led to. So very true and so very Holmesian.

Poor pining Watson! I feel for him here.

This is a lovely story, very atmospheric in its treatment of night and day and chances passed by. Fantastic work, really wonderful.

[tazlet.livejournal.com]

How very, very clever this is. And with wonderful imagery.

[hardboiledbaby]

Oh, how can something so beautifully written be so heartrendingly sad? And yet it is so. Poor Watson. Thank you, anon.

[spacemutineer.livejournal.com]

Oh, this is marvelous. So evocative and full of atmosphere and character. A brief moment of possibility glimpsed just slightly then lost. I loved it.

[methylviolet10b]

What a wonderfully introspective piece. You added just the right grace notes of artistry and beauty of language to balance out the wistfulness and angst. Lovely job, Anon!

[stardust-made.livejournal.com]

This is like the feeling of music and darkness it describes so masterfully: heavy and gorgeous, clever and intense; oblique. Just as the finale is much like Watson's daylight: equally powerful, but so depressing. Marvelous work, truly!

[fiona-fawkes.livejournal.com]

Oh that was so beautiful and so sad. Very nicely done.

[tripleransom.livejournal.com]

The Wagner was perfectly chosen to express the mood. Thank you for this fic.

[equusentric.livejournal.com]

That last line actually made me tear up. Beautiful work.

[mistyzeo.livejournal.com]

A gorgeous, heartbreaking piece! It makes me hope for more nights and revelations, and better mornings for acceptance.