The letter farewell

A/N This is short on purpose. I'm working on a longer chapter right now. This is just to hold you.



Sherlock Holmes floated above his body and watched as his love sat sobbing in a chair next to his bed. He hadn’t known his death would pain Watson so. If he had, he wouldn’t have sent the letter, but left it to be found at a later time. Holmes shouldn’t have made Watson come to watch him die.

He knew he didn’t have to die, the music told him that, but did he really want to return? Did he want to go back to his solitary life? His life where he knew the one person he cared for despised him for what he was? Holmes was no stranger to pain, to the black moods that would sweep him away at the conclusion of a case. But to live with it as a constant companion, to know that the one he desired to be with couldn’t even look at him now. Hadn’t the past year proved that much? No, there was too much pain to be had and not enough pleasure, even from his work. Even knowing that Watson rushed to his side as he did wasn’t proof that once he was well the doctor wouldn’t turn his back and leave again. There was a new Mrs. Watson to think about and it was obvious where Watson’s true feelings lay.

Yet the music told him to listen, to wait just a while longer, to watch. Holmes was an astute observer; it had been much of his life. So there he floated, waiting.
~*~*~*~*~*

Mycroft Holmes was vexed. He knew Dr. Watson hadn’t left when he was ordered to. The man was too much like Sherlock sometimes for his own good. But was the gamble of leaving them alone together worth it? Mycroft knew if anyone could bring his brother back it would be John Watson. He just wondered if the cost was going to be too high to pay.