Work Text:
January 1th
I could've huged him instead of just have shaked his hand, but I was afraid that would be more difficult to let him go.
This is the 3th time I lost him. The first was when he jumped from Bart's roof, the second when my lovely wife shot him (yeah, It is exacty what you read) and the third when he entered that plane.
We were all in the tarmac. He was beautiful, the sunlight was playing with the color of his eyes (green like the grass behind us) and wind with the curls of this hair. It was like England was contemplating one of its most memorable sons one last time.
One night before I made the decision that I wouldn't show how much his lost and all this affects me to make this farewell easier to him. I acted like a doctor telling a bad news to a pacient, cold and profissional. Or like a soldier hiding his fear in the battlefield. I told myself that crying was bullshit, it wouldn't change our situation, and it wouldn't make him stay, to be true, no one could.
I thought that he would do the same. When he was in danger he used to become all logical and moved by cold reason.
He used to... This is the right expression. The man I saw that day was soft and transparent. The sorrow and pain was visible in his eyes. His voice failed when I asked him about his future.I forgot that he was a calculation machine and a cold-mind detective for a moment. He had became the charming and mad man I met in 2010. But he still was, somehow, Sherlock Holmes, with all his grace.
That was our goodbye. No tears, no resistence. He went away and didn't look back. I stayed there looking to the love of my life fading away, embracing the woman who is caring my unborn child.
And there I came with a conclusion after all of these... Sherlock Watson could actually work.