Work Text:
DISPATCH BOX: Last
At the very bottom of the hidden compartment of the dispatch box of John Watson, MD, under the stack of intimate papers meant only for two people’s eyes, there is a single sheet of paper. Unlike all the others, this one is pristine; it has apparently not been touched since it was written. It has been folded and within it lie several newspaper clippings. The codicil is written entirely in the distinct handwriting of Sherlock Holmes.
DOCTOR KILLED IN MOTOR SMASH
“As a result of a motor smash, Doctor John Watson was fatally injured and expired…”
It is three years to the day that Doctor John Watson last walked the streets of London—or of anywhere, for that matter.
There were accounts of it in all of the newspapers—some more and some less accurate; some more lurid than others. The facts are this: It was a clear, sunny afternoon and the streets were crowded with people, carriages, and motors. Doctor John Watson, famed Strand Magazine author, was out enjoying the day when a motorist lost control of his vehicle. He saw a small child in the street, directly in its path, and without hesitation leapt out in front of it, pushing the girl to safety and bearing the brunt of the impact.
Of course he saved the girl. Of course he had to help. That is what John Watson did.
At the inquest it was determined that John died instantly. That is good, in its own way. He did not suffer. He did not linger.
Three years. I cannot but help, on this day, to recall that that is how long we were separated the first time—a situation not of his choosing. At the time I could see no other way to right the wrongs wrought by Professor Moriarty and his spider web of crime, but now I feel nothing but regret. I understand now what he felt for those three years. I know now what it means to have the loss of someone reverberate through one’s every breath.
I went into his bedroom this morning and was so very sorry.
In some ways, it is as if not a single moment has gone by. I still expect to hear his firm step on the stairs of 221 Baker Street. I still expect to see his coat and hat hung neatly by the door. I wait for him to complain about my latest experiment or suggest lunch out as a treat. Instead, there is nothing.
I am not, as has been noted, a sentimental man—at least not in a way that I would allow anyone to observe. My chosen career has made me, by necessity, a master of disguising my emotions. Add to that the fact that our relationship was, and still is, not only considered immoral and inverted but is actually illegal, and it is no wonder that people consider me cold and aloof.
We were very careful, he and I. Neither of us wanted to experience first-hand the horrors of the British prison system, as poor Mr Wilde did, nor the public scrutiny and rejection we would have experienced as fallen heroes. The ways we maintained years of subterfuge seem ridiculously convoluted now, and perhaps a bit cowardly.
It amuses me sometimes to read the works of various chroniclers of our career. For some reason, many of them seem quite determined to create a chronology of our lives and adventures together. They never get it right and no one ever will if they base their work entirely on John’s published stories. Those stories—as I have pointed out many times—were just that. The cases were real, of course, but the details—names and dates; locations and even seasons and years were changed to protect the privacy of the innocent people involved, and—he admitted that he did this—to make better, more exciting stories. An interesting outcome of this habit of his is that many people believe that he was married not once, but twice, and some have even conjectured on a third wife. This is so ludicrous and far from the truth that I laugh out loud when I read the latest article, complete with “proof” from his tales. There is no proof, of course, because that never happened.
Oh, there were certainly times when we did not share living quarters. He would periodically move to a hotel. I admit that those times were because I had driven him utterly mad, and then he would pack his bags and storm out and I wouldn’t see or hear from him for three weeks at a time, or once even six months, but he would always come back home. I would apologize and he would laugh and then we would settle back down into our lives together the way they were meant to be. I would always miss him dreadfully during his absences, and I admit that I was not the best of company during those times.
And now—
I miss evenings sitting next to you before the fire, reading. I miss tramping over the moors with you in pursuit of another piece of the puzzle. I miss watching you shave.
I do not go to church and light a candle in your remembrance. Instead, every year on this day I play all of your favourite tunes. They are, for the most part, lively and light, and that helps.
I do not visit your grave and leave flowers at your headstone. Instead, I have a glass of your favourite Scotch whisky and smoke one of your cigars.
I do not write poetry and wax eloquent about our private times together. Instead, I lie alone in your bed and read for probably the hundredth time your accounts of them.
I miss you so very, very much, John. I miss your laugh. I miss your eyes. I miss the feel of your skin on mine.
I miss the sound of your voice.
SH
[And there is a space, and then an additional note:]
I do still—and always will—love you.