Work Text:
I.
Much like my brother Mycroft, at times I would perch by the windowsill at Baker Street and observe the passersby on the street below.
Observe the young man who is just exiting the florist’s at the corner. He is a merchant — a toy merchant. From Eastern Europe, judging by the way he holds his flowers. The flowers must be a gift for his newly wed wife. His business has been thriving of late, but he gambles at cards, which leaves him perpetually short on money.
Observe the lawyer who is climbing out from the carriage across the street. He comes from Marylebone station, evidently. His marriage is an unhappy one, but he is fond of his child — yes, a young child, most probably a boy.
And observe the gentleman and lady who have stopped by the doorstep of 221B. That is my roommate, Dr. Watson, and his fianceé, Miss Mary Morstan. They have just returned from a successful outing, and are now standing at the doorsteps, talking, laughing, unwilling to part from each other. Watson looks happier than I’ve ever seen him.
I look away in disgust.
Their wedding is in four weeks. I have been invited, but I do not think I shall be going. And I know that I should be happy for Watson, but I truly cannot congratulate him. Maybe I am unfairly influenced by my line of work, but in my view, love is a dangerous thing. How many tragedies have I bore witness to that resulted from some unfortunate soul being blindsided by love? What is this thing called “love,” really, and what about it makes humankind so tenacious in their pursuit of it? I cannot possibly understand.
II.
It is true that I have never loved. The softer emotions will only serve to distract me and impair my judgement. And I cannot allow that to happen, especially now. Moriarty himself may be forever buried beneath the Reichenbach Falls, but his men were still at my heels. Even the tiniest slip can easily undo all of the painstaking work I’ve undertaken to dismantle the rest of this insidious network, or worse, kill me. I must remain cool and logical.
Today I have finally reached Montpelier. It has been more than two long years of travelling from place to place, where I know no one, and no one knows me. I have been a stranger for much too long, and I am so tired. Perhaps that is why I’ve been longing for London, longing for someone to be at my side, longing for some sort of connection. Watson accuses me of being a cold, unfeeling machine, a brain without a heart. But I know more than anyone now that I am just an ordinary man. I am not above sentiments and desires, even if I appear to scoff at them. My heart is as real as anyone else’s, even if I keep it shut away and mostly forgotten in a sealed bottle, while it beats against the glass walls and struggles to get out.
On the train here I read Watson’s account of my “death” at the falls. During these past two years he had kept writing stories of our adventures, and I’ve noticed the change of his tone in this one, the heavy heart as he recalled what he believed to be the last adventure we would ever share. He called me the best and wisest man he’d ever known, and it pains me. I have let him down. How unworthy I am of his trust, and his devotion!
I wished to tell him that he is more than I can ever be, and that is what I shall do, once we are reunited.
III.
I’d never thought that I would kill for another. The thought had never occurred to me, never even passingly crossed my mind, before today. But in that moment, it was clear to me that had Evans killed Watson, I would not have let him leave that room alive.
It was truly by providence that the bullet had merely grazed Watson in the leg. I was terrified to think of how close he had come to harm — and how easily he could come to harm — due to a lapse in my judgement. Watson was the only fixed point in my life, the only man I was willing to rely on. And I have relied on him, consciously or not. And in return I wanted to protect him, to bring him joy, to have him rely on me.
Perhaps this was what people called “love”?
“I’m glad you’re telling me this,” Watson said. He was surprisingly unfazed by the maniacal rambling that I had just subjected him to. “I have never doubted the depth of your regard for me, old man, and similarly, I think you should know that I cherish you more than anything in this life.”
It was the first time in my life I had been so vulnerably exposed before another, the first time I had opened that bottle and let my heart reach for the sky. I could feel the rush of blood in my ears, the pounding against my chest. At some point I had fallen to my knees, and was clutching Watson’s hand in excitement.
“Watson, you know that I have never loved before, and that I do not know how to love,” I said, “But you must give me this chance. For your sake, I will learn. Please, teach me how to love, like you.”
“What? Oh, no, my dear Holmes. I hardly believe you need my instruction on this matter. There are many ways you can love another. Perhaps you are not one to kiss me, or to flirt with me, or to cuddle me in bed and whisper sweet nothings in my ears. But you see — you’d bring me with you on your adventures. You’d come to my protection when I am in danger. You’d play your violin to cheer me up when I am down. Perhaps you are not a conventional lover in the average man’s eye. But you have always known how to love, Holmes, and I have always been able to feel your love for me.”