Disclaimer: I am not Arthur Conan Doyle.
Warnings: H/W slash, a bit sad
Beta: The wonderful Lyra
This... admiration is more suited to poetry than to prose. Perhaps that is the reason I have never set this down in wordsbefore, never before stated my true feelings for my friend Sherlock Holmes.
How is it that I find myself incapable of putting this truth into words? Even as I write this, I feel as if Holmes is looking over my shoulder. Impossible! I know for certain that he is working on a case in Exeter. For that, I am glad. I would only ever allow him to read this in imaginings late at night, when I am utterly alone.
"'Utterly alone?' I should think not, my dear Watson."
I whirled around in my chair, startled. Holmes was standing behind me, and I wondered how much he had read, or how long he had been there. He was smiling sadly.
"Perhaps, Watson, your true feelings are best left unacknowledged." Holmes shook his head slowly, then turned and walked into his bedroom, closing the door silently behind him.
I stared blankly at where he had stood, hardly able to believe what I had just seen. I considered following whatever that had been, but I feared I might not like what I found. I knew that was not Holmes; I knew for a fact that he would be gone for another week at least.
When he did arrive back in Baker Street, the incident still preyed upon my mind. I questioned him as to his doings; there were barely two hours together left unaccounted for. I never told him of my fanciful vision, or of what I had written that day. I have never regretted an action more.
After his supposed death at Reichenbach, I thought him gone. Now that he is back, I am afraid that I will lose him again, this time forever. He is asleep in his armchair, bathed by the light of the fire, and I wonder, as I watch him, if it is too late to tell him.Email the author with comments, complaints, or to plead for a sequel.