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The Memories We Drown (In)
I will burn this note when I am done.
If it is found by anyone else, and you have a heart in your chest, please burn it before reading further.
I should not put these words to paper, but I find it easier to think when I am writing, and I have a great deal that I must organize in my thoughts at the moment.
As all the world knows, Holmes returned from Reichenbach. Years late, but overall not changed at all, and he and I fell into our easy camaraderie. I returned to Baker Street, finally understanding why it had stayed as a shrine to the world’s greatest detective. We began fighting crime as a unit once more.
Holmes was his usual self. Cutting, clever, alternatively solicitous and vicious with his words, but never intentionally cruel..
Never misleading.
Which is why it confused and excited me in equal measure when I began to think that he might be propositioning me. I had believed that Holmes had no romantic inclinations; no desire for pleasures of the flesh, be they with woman or man.
Which was a state of being that I respected, even if I myself could be easily turned by a pretty head or a well-sculpted heel, and had enjoyed my share of dalliances in my day.
I quietly acquiesced to all that Holmes suggested. I quite enjoyed our time out on the town, watching musical performances, experiencing all the joys that London could offer two gentlemen of modest means. I enjoyed our time at home, Holmes regaling me with stories from both before our acquaintance and from his time in hiding.
And when finally Holmes appeared to lose patience with me and directly propositioned me, murmuring in my ear, “Watson, tell me clearly: do you or do you not wish to take me to bed?”
I of course answered honestly, as I must always do with my dear friend, and told him yes.
And that, I fear, is where everything went wrong.
***
Holmes is not a small man. Thin, yes, but he makes up for that thin frame with length and energy. He could fill a room just by sticking his beak of a nose into it.
He looked very small as he settled in his chair by the fire, his knees drawn up to his chest.
I draped his favorite blanket around his shoulders, trying to make sense of what happened.
“I am so terribly sorry, Watson,” he murmured, his eyes staying fixed on the fire.
I did not begrudge him that. I knew that eye contact was hard for him at the best of times, and this was not the best of times.
“You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” I soothed. “I am sorry. I should have known, should have noticed—”
“There was nothing you could have known, nothing you could have noticed.” Holmes’ whole body shuddered. “Oh, Watson, I fear I have made a terrible hash of the entire business. How could I ask for your forgiveness?”
“Simply like that, and if you feel you need it, it is granted, but I do not feel slighted.” Embarrassed, somewhat; ashamed, most certainly, for I still worried that my ardor had led me to miss some signs that should have made things clear before my companion began thrashing in agonized need to escape my amorous grasp.
“You are too good a man,” Holmes murmured, and his eyes shimmered with tears that he did not let fall. “And I am too much a coward.”
“You are not a coward,” I replied with quick surety. “I have seen your courage, Holmes. I would bet on your spirit against any other.”
Holmes made a strangled sound, and lifted his hands to cover his face. “You do not know. You cannot know.”
“Then will you tell me?” I asked gently, for this seemed a secret that was poisoning my dear partner’s heart and soul. “I would listen, if you will it.”
Holmes chewed on his bottom lip. “It is a sorry state of being. A terrible waste of emotional effort, and yet I cannot seem to get past it.”
I waited, knowing that sometimes Holmes had to come to a decision in the quiet of his own thoughts. Or perhaps quiet was not the right word for it. I suspected that when he raged against any sound from myself or the outside world, it was because internally there were already competing symphonies, and he could not handle any additional pieces added to the score.
“It was during my hiatus,” Holmes whispered. “I found myself far too close to Colonel Moran for comfort—sharing the same lodgings, though thankfully it was an inn of some repute and many rooms, and I had hopes that I could simply avoid him. Especially because I was, at the time, passing myself off as a rather frumpy woman of much chattiness and little substance.”
I nodded, easily able to imagine this.
“I made a mistake, though. I assumed that because I was not a beautiful woman, I would not be a target. I have since come to realize the gravity of that mistake. Did you know that it is not actually beauty that most dictates whether a woman is in danger, but simply opportunity?” Holmes flashed me one of his fast, brilliant smiles, but his eyes still swam with unshed tears, and his voice trembled, just a few notes higher than normal.
“I did not know that,” I replied honestly. I knew of assault, of course; no doctor could work for so long as I have and not.
No man could serve in the military for any length of time and not know what some of his fellow men got up to, though I always liked to think none of my friends were among those who preyed upon the women that had no other options than to offer themselves to foreign soldiers.
“Well, it is quite true, and what I thought would be a safe haven turned out to very much not be. A woman, traveling alone, annoying and frumpy, no friends or family in town?” Holmes tilted his head back, and started to rock, a simple, repetitive movement of his body that formed an odd counterpoint to the way he shook his head back and forth. “A common thug, Watson. A common thug came into my room, and because I dared not make a fuss, not with Moran and four of his friends so close, I allowed him to paw me. I thought perhaps that when he realized his mistake, when he saw that I was not actually a woman, he would leave.”
Holmes continued to rock, his breath becoming rougher, a harsh shiver in his throat.
“But he did not,” I finished for him.
“No,” Holmes whispered. “He did not. He started to laugh. He practically cackled. He caressed my face—” Holmes slashed his fingers across his cheek, so fierce I worried briefly that he would draw his own blood. Only thin red lines appeared, however, and I thought it best not to interrupt him. “And he whispered that he would tell no one; that if I sat quiet and allowed him to finish, he would let me continue on my way without giving away my secret.”
I wanted to touch him so badly; to reach over and hold him to me, and tell him that he did not need to say more. But I could tell that he did need to speak; that he would not feel better until he did. So I kept my hands and my words in reserve, waiting for the right moment.
Some of the tears finally spilled over, and Holmes managed to grit out, “So I did. I allowed him to have his way. I thought it would take five, ten minutes. It would be swift, surely; I am aware enough of the mechanics to assume it would be swift.” Holmes lifted his right hand to cover his face. “He was not swift. I did not know that an hour could be so long; that a body could be so… so…”
“You do not have to say more,” I finally said, reaching out to brush my fingers against his.
Holmes’ hand latched onto me as though I were a life ring, and he a drowning man.
“If you wish to say more, you can,” I said quietly. “But you do not need to. I understand, and I am sorry that our attempt at intimacy brought up these painful memories.”
“You do not need to apologize,” Holmes practically snarled. “I was the one who propositioned you, Watson. And I did so at least partly because I did not want my one and only experience with the carnal arts to be… that.” He spat the last word. “I know you love me; I know you desire me. I thought that perhaps, if I were to erase that act which no one knows about—which no one needed to know about, which I could keep quiet and bury—if I could drown the memories of his body in yours—but that was not a fair thing to do to you.”
“Holmes,” I whispered, trying to decide what I could say that would help. “You are not to blame for these feelings. I am glad—ecstatic even—that you thought I could help. That you trusted me with your body, even after—”
“But I did not,” Holmes growled, starting to rock again. “I thought that I could, but you tried to be gentle, to be kind, and I—I screamed at you! I acted as though you were… I hurt you.”
“You startled me,” I said with a smile. “But that is not the same as hurting me. I am honored, rather, that you trust me so. And I will help in whatever way I can.”
“Find me a way to be a mind without a body,” Holmes said, his eyes staring hard into the fire. “Find me a way to stop these useless memories from rising.”
“I do not know if that is within my power,” I answered Holmes honestly. “And I am rather attached to you being in your body. But I will do what I can to alleviate your suffering.”
“Of course you will.” Holmes closed his eyes, that faint, beautiful smile toying at his lips again. “Oh, my sturdy and steadfast Watson. I would be so lost without you.”
“We are lost without each other,” I reassured, and lifted his hand, fingers still clasped in mine, to my lips. “May I?” I whispered, pausing before actually completing the action.
Holmes opened his eyes to consider me, and then gave a tight, jerking nod.
I pressed my lips to that beautiful skin, feeling the scars of old chemical burns. Then I lowered our conjoined hands again. I squeezed my dear friend’s fingers. “I have some experience with memories that will not be still, my dear Holmes. When first we met, I could hardly sleep some nights, and could hardly wake some days, because of memories that I thought should have been left half a world away.”
“But you pulled yourself out of that mire,” Holmes said quietly, eyes flitting between my face and the fire.
“I did. But not on my own.” I lifted our hands, pressing them against my cheek. “I could not have managed without you, Holmes. You gave me a life that I have thoroughly loved, even if it is not the life I once thought I would have, and I will try to do the same for you, if you would allow it.”
“I would like to be with you for the rest of my life,” Holmes stated with quiet fervor.
“Then that is what we will do,” I replied firmly. “We will stay together, in whatever ways are comfortable for us both. And we will be happy, Holmes. Of that I am certain.”
Holmes tilted his head back, studying the ceiling. “You are going to say we will be happy because we will be together. That is a tautology, you know. Circular logic.”
“A good thing I am not a Greek philosopher, then, but rather a humble doctor.” I stood. “A humble doctor with a patient and friend that could use a cup of tea, I do think.”
Holmes had his eye closed again, and was rocking, though not with as much force, his blanket pulled tight around his shoulders. “I would think a nice pot of tea is always an improvement,” he agreed.
So that is what I went to fetch.
I might not be able to erase his memories.
I might not be able to promise that the pain would not rise up to swallow all again.
But I could promise that I would be with him to fight the darkness, as he had been with me to fight mine.
And I could be certain, truly certain in my heart of hearts, that this would bring us both through to clear skies again.