The letter farewell

Watson and Mycroft continue their argument and we learn what Sherlock is feeling. I don't own 'em and don't make money from them.



Watson broke free of Mycroft’s iron grip and stood trembling. “How do you know what your brother is feeling?” he asked. “You never spend any time with him. I would go so far as to say you don’t know him at all.”

“And neither sir do you,” replied Mycroft. “You are blinded by convention. And as a doctor you should know better than to shout near a sick room. As executor of Sherlock’s affairs until such time as he heals or passes from us I hereby ban you from these rooms. Now get out.”

The elder Holmes swept majestically into his brother’s room and closed the door. Watson stared after him for a moment in shock before his shoulders drooped, his heart sank and he sighed. He felt lost, almost floating with the knowledge that his friend was dying and there was literally nothing he could do.

He allowed his head to drop forward as he shuffled out of the sitting room and into the hall. As Watson stooped to pick up his stick and gloves, that he had grabbed only out of habit, his gaze fell upon the stairs to his old room. With the thought that Mycroft would be too distracted to check thoroughly and was probably relying on Watson’s code of ethics, he quietly climbed the stairs and shut himself in.
~*~*~*~*~*

Sherlock Holmes was floating; there was no other word for it, on a sea of music. The sweetest violin music cushioned him, took away his pain, soothed his tormented mind. He was beyond caring about anything or anyone. Finally he was able to see things clearly. His love for Watson was only secondary to the life he was now living. He closed his gray eyes and listened as the music grew stronger.
~*~*~*~*~*

Watson sat on the floor of his old room, bare of anything save the accursed needle and empty glass vials scattered on the floor. He leaned back against the door and thought seriously, for the first time, about how he had come to be in such a position. John Watson was a gentleman through and through. He was raised to know that he was to marry and have children. That was what a gentleman did. *But* a voice whispered in his mind. *But is not Sherlock Holmes a gentleman too*

He was and that was what Watson was having such trouble understanding. How could one man feel so deeply about another? Especially in a romantic sense? It wasn’t clear to him at all how Holmes could have fallen in *love* with him when he scoffed at all of the soft emotions. Watson thought back over his long relationship with Holmes, how they’d been such close friends once, before Watson’s first marriage and then again just after Holmes’ return from the dead. It was always when Watson was interested, courting or married that there appeared a strain on their friendship. Now it was obvious why but what to do about it? And what of his poor wife? He’d run out without a word to her about where he was going or when he would return. Watson grinned slightly; he’s always been willing to drop everything when Holmes called. It seemed that, at least hadn’t changed.