I made this fic thanks to the inspiration given to me by Tatsumi-20XX (dA) (with her fic The Last Kiss) and to Monk, who quoted Oscar Wilde, so then, to Oscar Wilde too.
When gods wish to punish us
One chance, that was all he asked for. One chance to know how it would be like to feel that he love him. Be able to feel at least one those lips against his and taste that mouth. And in case that he had the luck to be in that tiny chance of opportunities in which his feelings were reciprocated, he would like to know. Every night before that sleep took him in its arms, he felt in his heart that terrible and distressing anguish of wishing and needing something he knew impossible.
And every morning, Sherlock Holmes woke up behind that cold mask of the analytic mind. Because hiding his feelings was much easier that facing the possibility to lose him if he by any chance he knew about his feelings. And also, in this fashion he could be his friend, solve crimes together and behave as if his heart did not tremble and agonizingly sob for his near presence. It was heaven and hell at the same time.
Cocaine did not help him as in the old days. Before it was enough for him, now without matter what his mind kept coming back to him. He was the drug that he distressingly need, but it came under prescription and only one doctor could give him the recipe, and he wouldn't do it. That was why he was so grateful every time he had a case to solve. His mind was stuck inside the riddle, one complete different thing to obsess with. If he didn't screw it up, getting distracted by how it would be to caress his skin. And this time, it had been harder than ever and he considered himself lucky of having followed the right path.
'All right, Watson.' said Holmes. 'In few minutes the thief will arrive. If things goes as planned and assuming that Lestrade follows my instructions, we won't need it, but yet, do you have your revolver ready?'
'Loaded and ready.' answered Watson.
'Good.' said Holmes with a smirk curving his lips and the sparkle of adventure in his eyes.
The thief finally appeared and started to walk down the hall just as Holmes had said. The two partners began to walk stealthy behind him. The hall was wide so both advanced together. When the detective lay down one more time one foot on the ground, he was betrayed by one the woods of the floor that creaked, giving them away. The criminal turned around, in his dangerous look it could be tell that he knew who they were.
He raised the arm that held the gun.
Then everything happened in slow motion.
'No!' was the exclamation that was heard coming from Watson's lips, in unison with the gun explosion.
Watson's hands took the rim of Holmes' coat by the front and push him to the floor, while the doctor's body was now place where the other had been before. The detective's head hit the floor and receiving his friend's body upon him.
More shoots were heard, also what seemed to be Lestrade's voice. But none of it mattered to Sherlock Holmes, all he cared about in that moment had name and last name and it was on top of him.
'Watson? Watson?' it could be heard the detective's voice.
Softly, he raised the doctor's body and once he was able to move better. Holding him with a hand in his back, he put him face up on the floor. Then, Sherlock Holmes felt something that filled him with horror, that made that his eyes were full with tears and that his throat shut down. The hand that was holding his friend's back was wet, stained with a thicken liquid. He took away his hand to be able to see it and confirm what he already knew.
'Watson?' he called once more with a trembled voice, with fear.
'Holmes?' answered him his friend's weak voice.
'Watson!' he claimed with a greater relief than reason should allow him.
'Holmes…' said the doctor once more almost in an inaudible whisper as if he was relief too.
'Now we'll take you to the hospital and everything will be fine.' said the detective but it was a lie and he knew it, but he refused to believe.
'Holmes, don't…' was the sad answer from Watson, there wasn't time for white lies, it was time to say goodbye. 'You know as well as I do that are little the minutes I have left. ' he ended trying to smile but dulled by pain.
'No.' he refused to believe to the other one. 'Everything will be fine and you will see how we'll soon be laughing about this as an old story at Baker Street.' because everything was going to be okay, because it had to be.
'Now you should take care of yourself better, my old boy, I will be no longer there to watch your back.' he laughed painfully.
The truth was too big to continue denying it and it ended reaching and crushing Holmes.
'That bullet was meant for me.' he cried burying his head between his friend's hands as if he looked for absolution.
'And I would do it one and thousand times more without thinking about it.' told him Watson.
Then he claimed with his hands Holmes' look who constantly asked forgiveness with it, while he struggle with the tears that clouded his sight.
'Listen to me, I…' started to say Watson but even in his deathbed the shame was too much.
Even though at this point the words were out of place, because those eyes expressed all those thing that didn't have a definition. With a sharp pain in the heart, Holmes understood it. His Watson loved him with the same madness and passion than him. And there was only one thing to do and it didn't matter who were watching them or if after it a rope was tied around his neck. And he kissed him.
At last, he could feel the taste of that mouth, the warm of that desired cavity. And his soul feel as it was heaven, but he was an intruder try to jump over the railings. The pain of farewell was present in the rubbing of his tongues and in the salty flavour of blood that was noticed. Never a kiss between two people was so sweet and bitter at the same time.
But their bodies were claiming them and they had to separate so they could breath. And with a resigned sigh, as who don't want to let go, Sherlock opened his eyes. And he just watched him, observing every detail of those grey blue wells before they were closed to him forever. In that look, they took care of saying all that was never said before and all that they wouldn't be able to say no more.
But Watson felt that he had to do it, at least once before the words died with him.
'I love you.' he said.
Sherlock wanted to answer him but he couldn't. His eyes moistened once more and almost he couldn't breathe without the crying take control over him. Finally, he managed to clear his throat enough to say:
'I love you too.'
But Watson couldn't hear him anymore.
'No, Watson!' was Homes' desperate scream while he shook his companion's body trying him to react.
But it was already too late and Watson was gone where he couldn't follow him. The iron man fell apart completely and he let that the cry took control over him. The sob shook his body in violent spasms. Holmes was alien to everything, save for the pain that tore his heart. He was alien to the night that had descended, to the rain falling that seemed to cry with him and to the official that watched him with repugnance. But Lestrade wasn't alien to it. And although he had to fight against the tears and maintain his composure, he said:
'You have not seen anything here.'
'But…' complained the same official that contemptuously looked Holmes.
'I said that you have not seen anything here!' ordered the inspector and looked the rest of his subordinates, challenging someone to stand against him.
Everyone took the silence order and retreated.
'Holmes.' whispered Lestrade briefly shaking his friend's shoulder.
'No.' complained the detective.
'Holmes, you must let him go.' he said softly.
'No!' shouted this time as if he was a five year child incapable of releasing his favourite toy.
Lestrade sat on his knees next to him.
'Holmes, you must do it. You must let him go. That's what Watson would want.'
But he couldn't, he didn't want to. Even though, eventually he released his friend's body and taking Lestrade's shoulder to cry. Then, they came from Scotland Yard to take the body to the morgue. Sherlock didn't want to look it anymore, now it wasn't more that and empty shell, the recipient that used to contain his best friend soul. Lestrade insisted to accompany Holmes to his home, Mrs. Hudson welcomed them, who watched confused the two men. One look from the inspector was more than enough for the poor woman to understand. The loud sobs that she uttered didn't help to the depressed soul of Holmes.
Lestrade served a glass of whisky to Holmes once he managed to get him sat down, who after several complains he got rid of the inspector that left with a big regret in his heart. Sherlock Holmes wanted to be alone. And it was that his life didn't have any sense without his Boswell at his side. He was complete and awfully alone. And the worst thing of all was that he loved him. He loved with madness and passion and he hadn't had him at his side anymore. He would never be able to watch his slow mind in work while he tried to follow his methods, neither his face get surprised with some right deduction from him, not even he would be capable of watching his frustrated expression every time he took his cocaine. And it was that he loved every little detail about him.
What's more, it seemed that somehow, his soul companion had similar feelings. And he, the great master of deduction, hadn't noticed it. And now it was too late and Watson was gone.
Sherlock Holmes wished to die.
"When gods wish to punish us, they answer our prayers."
I hope that you liked it. And if it made you cry then it was worthy. I almost cried when I was writing it and it's hard for me to cry when I'm writing.
I just needed to write some angst.