Perseverance (Holmes)
Title: Perseverance (Holmes)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Angst and sadness
Summary: Watson, Holmes, an unjustness, a resentment
A/N: The first of a pair of matched fics that are obviously not in the same universe. Still for shkinkmeme
It isn’t the sight of a full ink well that shatters his reserve. Nor the dust-covered physician’s bag that sits just under a worn armchair. The thing that finally ruins the stone walls of his famous composure is a simple white flower.
There hadn’t been a criminal involved, no mysterious murder, no stolen jewelry. Just an ordinary day, the two of them enjoying a brief moment of peace and solitude, away from the incessant demands upon their time. Holmes conducting an experiment he had been putting off for quite some time, and Watson taking the opportunity to finish one of the myriad novels that invariably found their way to his bedside table.
There was no immediate sign that anything was wrong, just a sudden thump. A brain-jarring, sickly-sounding thump. Watson was a quick as he ever was to aid his friend, but in the end, no deft touch, no well-spring of knowledge could reverse the terrible damage done by tainted chemicals combined in just that manner.
Intellectually, he knew that Holmes was lucky to have survived at all, let alone with enough faculties to fulfill the most basic of his needs. But his heart has a permanent rend that only grows deeper as he watches his most-loved of friends struggle to remember the origins of the breakfast currently cooling on the table. As he sees Holmes glance surreptitiously to his notes detailing crucial physical characteristics of their closest friends in an effort to appear as if he remembers them as he should.
There have always been moments of silence between them, but it was the silence of years of companionship and not this damnable lack of something to say that doesn’t sound trite and won’t spark the now ever-present temper. He knows, in his more thoughtful moments, that Holmes hates that his emotions are no longer his own. That he despises the inevitable pain that comes with knowing just where a friend’s greatest weaknesses lie and the lack of inhibition to control the all-too-human urge to strike and do the most damage. That he longs for Watson to yell back, to strike him, to leave.
But Watson is tied to Holmes. Tied by his loyalty, his duty, his guilt to a man whom he only occasionally recognizes and who rarely knows him. Intellectually, he knows that it’s only human to be angry. But that doesn’t ease the ache in his chest when temper flares in his breast and he’s reminded once again that everything has changed.
He doesn’t regret giving up his practice to stay with Holmes, to tend to the injuries, physical and mental, that lurk behind every innocuous encounter. And he doesn’t regret that he no longer has time to write anything longer than a telegram or a letter begging for assistance from any unqualified charlatan that offers a mere glimmer of hope. But what kills him inside, in spite of all the love and understanding he can muster for his companion, are the white flowers that mark the grave of the latest victim that the famed duo was unable to save. He knows it’s foolish, but a much larger part of himself than he will ever admit to resents Holmes and his inability to rise above this, the greatest of challenges, to rescue the only remaining remnant of the love he shared with Mary.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Angst and sadness
Summary: Watson, Holmes, an unjustness, a resentment
A/N: The first of a pair of matched fics that are obviously not in the same universe. Still for shkinkmeme
It isn’t the sight of a full ink well that shatters his reserve. Nor the dust-covered physician’s bag that sits just under a worn armchair. The thing that finally ruins the stone walls of his famous composure is a simple white flower.
There hadn’t been a criminal involved, no mysterious murder, no stolen jewelry. Just an ordinary day, the two of them enjoying a brief moment of peace and solitude, away from the incessant demands upon their time. Holmes conducting an experiment he had been putting off for quite some time, and Watson taking the opportunity to finish one of the myriad novels that invariably found their way to his bedside table.
There was no immediate sign that anything was wrong, just a sudden thump. A brain-jarring, sickly-sounding thump. Watson was a quick as he ever was to aid his friend, but in the end, no deft touch, no well-spring of knowledge could reverse the terrible damage done by tainted chemicals combined in just that manner.
Intellectually, he knew that Holmes was lucky to have survived at all, let alone with enough faculties to fulfill the most basic of his needs. But his heart has a permanent rend that only grows deeper as he watches his most-loved of friends struggle to remember the origins of the breakfast currently cooling on the table. As he sees Holmes glance surreptitiously to his notes detailing crucial physical characteristics of their closest friends in an effort to appear as if he remembers them as he should.
There have always been moments of silence between them, but it was the silence of years of companionship and not this damnable lack of something to say that doesn’t sound trite and won’t spark the now ever-present temper. He knows, in his more thoughtful moments, that Holmes hates that his emotions are no longer his own. That he despises the inevitable pain that comes with knowing just where a friend’s greatest weaknesses lie and the lack of inhibition to control the all-too-human urge to strike and do the most damage. That he longs for Watson to yell back, to strike him, to leave.
But Watson is tied to Holmes. Tied by his loyalty, his duty, his guilt to a man whom he only occasionally recognizes and who rarely knows him. Intellectually, he knows that it’s only human to be angry. But that doesn’t ease the ache in his chest when temper flares in his breast and he’s reminded once again that everything has changed.
He doesn’t regret giving up his practice to stay with Holmes, to tend to the injuries, physical and mental, that lurk behind every innocuous encounter. And he doesn’t regret that he no longer has time to write anything longer than a telegram or a letter begging for assistance from any unqualified charlatan that offers a mere glimmer of hope. But what kills him inside, in spite of all the love and understanding he can muster for his companion, are the white flowers that mark the grave of the latest victim that the famed duo was unable to save. He knows it’s foolish, but a much larger part of himself than he will ever admit to resents Holmes and his inability to rise above this, the greatest of challenges, to rescue the only remaining remnant of the love he shared with Mary.