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For an intelligent man, I have been remarkably dense. The truth was within my reach all this time, but I was too blind to see it. Or perhaps I was simply afraid and hence wilfully blind ? – my nature has always shied from strong attachments and the very concept of loving another than myself once seemed ludicrous.
But I am telling the story backwards, let us begin at the beginning as my Watson would do.
From the very first moment I laid my eyes on John Watson, I knew the kind of a man he was. A brave and courageous man in the face of hardship. An honest and upright man, loyal and devoted to this friends and possessing an uncommon sympathy for the plight of strangers. (He had chosen to become a doctor for this reason instead of more materialistic considerations that drive so many.) Injury and illness had not broken his spirit – for though he was no doubt subdued in those early weeks and months of our acquaintance, he remained steadfast and reliable. Though he had no remarkable facility of observation – few do – he had a considerable amount of common sense and a logical scientific mind in his own right. Though mildly spoken and even of temper, he was remarkably open in the expression of his emotions, be it astonishment, excitement, concern or compassion, his empathetic nature often surfacing.
I did not however observe that there were hidden depths to my dear friend, a secret garden protected from trespassers. Though perhaps it was not so much the unconventional nature of his feelings that allowed him to hide them, but the fact that they were directed toward me – and I was remarkably blind in these matters, as was proven by that which followed.
I knew the kind of a man John Watson was, in essence, from the very beginning. For all my peculiar talents, he was no doubt the better man. While I well understood his extraordinary character, I did not understand my own rapidly developing infatuation, nay, obsession, with him. While it was obvious to all that he was enchanted by me, I was at least equally enchanted by him. It was perhaps not so visible to the casual observer for, paradoxically, I am a man of both uncaring nature and theatrical dramatics when a flight of fancy takes me. I seldom display feelings in the kind of open and forthright manner that makes Watson’s character so appealing.
It often seemed that Watson was the follower and I the lead – Watson recounted my feats of reasoning and triumphs of intellect in a manner that made me seem almost inhuman, while I led him to many a wondrous (and sometimes perilous) adventure. They do not know that Watson was the force motrice that drove me to these heights, much more than my own desire for fame, the pure intellectual challenge or the will to see justice done. For I needed these fantastical cases to ensure that Watson stayed by my side. Even though I was blind to many other things, I knew that he was the better man and that if I did not work to keep him under my thrall, I would surely lose him one day. Desperation rather than boredom made me turn to means of coping he found so distasteful, which only served to drive a first wedge between us.
The irony that I should be the Scheherazade of this tale is not lost on me – Watson’s storytelling gifts made me famous, but it was I who was week after week relentlessly searching for a case that might keep him spellbound a while longer. Vain as I am, preened like a peacock with his praise – nay, I lived for it. I tried to monopolise his attention and was dismissive and contemptuous of anyone else he connected with, which only served to alienate him further. Jealous and afraid, this is turn caused me to spill more poisonous words on the futility of softer emotions. It is only too obvious in retrospect.
Despite depicting me as a cool, calculating machine, I have always suspected that Watson was never entirely convinced by my spiel. He possessed a remarkable intuition and knew me better than anyone – and had the opportunity to catch me in unguarded moments.
This unstable equilibrium could not last for long and the inevitable occurred: I lost my Watson to Ms. Morstan (for I refuse to call her Mrs. Watson even in my mind).
That, at last, should have alerted me to the truth; for I was as bitter, resentful, enraged and heartbroken as any a jilted lover. But still my blindness continued. I do not know how Watson remained my friend despite the manifest coldness towards both him and his new wife, but that constancy was perhaps the only thing that guaranteed my continued existence. It allowed me to entertain some small sliver of hope that I might one day regain his full affection and that we might once again become companions.
The pain went too deep for me to feign indifference until much time had passed, and I can only thank the gods that Watson did not entirely abandon me during that time, though we inevitably drifted apart.
Then came the affair with Professor Moriarty and the fall at Reichenbach. For all my intelligence, I did not pause to think what kind of injury the deception would inflict upon Watson. For I am not only a vain man but also a selfish one.
But perhaps the reality is worse – had I an unconscious desire to hurt Watson, to abandon him like he had abandoned me and to make him suffer as I had suffered ? I cannot in good conscience swear that that is not at least partially true. I shudder at that thought – I have always known that I am a hard man but I did not think myself a vengeful one. But emotions are not my forte; they say that the line between love and hate can sometimes run thin. As Wilde put it, “Yet each man kills the thing he loves.”
But my love for Watson would not die even far away from him, and I so it was inevitable that I should return after hearing of the death of his wife. The manner of my return and the unforgivable shock that I inflicted upon him show again that I am both a vain and a selfish man, with little consideration for anyone else, even my dearest (only ?) friend and onetime companion.
The account written of his initial reaction is accurate though incomplete. Perhaps the prolonged separation allowed me to observe his reactions in a more impartial manner, or perhaps it was rather a better understanding of my own inner works that finally allowed me to join the two pieces of the puzzle. For at that moment, I knew at last that I wanted John Watson to be mine, body and soul, and that I could express those feelings without fear of censure, the walls garding his secret garden crumbling before my eyes. My efforts to calm his distress, cradling him in my arms, led to an uncharacteristic outpour of tenderness; my very being yearned for this man with a craving spanning from the abyss of my soul to ravenous flesh.
He let me take him back to our old rooms in Baker Street that I hoped to share with him anew. Though at first wary of his reaction – with my newly gained understanding, I expected rage, bitterness, even hatred as I had felt – but I was shaken to see his the depths of his grief and his love for me. Humbled and repentant, I let go of the remnants of abominable pride and knelt before him begging for forgiveness. That night, I worshipped him with my body as we became one. Though I cannot verbalise my emotions easily, I hope that I at last gave him a better understanding of my heart through deeds, if not in words.
Watson is a better man than I for he forgave me. He forgave for everything, and I only hope to prove myself worthy of his affections. He is now mine, and I have sworn that no thing created by god or man shall ever separate us again. I know that I must curb my possessiveness, but I cannot help how my heart sings at that thought: John Watson is mine.
Fortunately, I am no longer alone; Watson, no, John, has proved a wiser man than I, and I hope that his gentle strength and goodness will guide us both in the years to come.