"i've fallen out of favour and i've fallen from grace, fallen out of trees and i've fallen on my face. fallen out of taxis, out of windows too. i fell in your opinion when i fell in love with you."
You're breaking my heart. Watson thinks pointedly at Holmes over breakfast one morning.
Holmes munches on his toast.
It was all very convoluted, but Watson had gathered a handful of things, of which he felt pretty certain:
One. Watson knew he loved Holmes. Two. Watson knew Holmes knew that Watson loved Holmes. Three. Holmes didn't love Watson.
Or at least that's what Watson assumed. Like he said, it was all very convoluted. When it came to Sherlock Holmes, nothing was clear - except to the detective himself, of course.
Watson just knew, that since it was impossible to hide anything about himself from Holmes, it was all basically just writing on the wall.
Watson's lost his appetite.
It's some kind of stupid, sadness waltz, the way they dance around each other. Finally it hits Watson like a cold burst of air as he sits by the fire one evening, that he can't continue on like this. Not unless he's willing to be unhappy for the rest of his life.
Not with how Holmes has a way of poking, prodding, and pushing at the doctor, choosing words that make Watson's heart lurch in his chest. Often Watson wonders why he's doing this, and then Holmes will get that gleam in his eye and Watson's mouth will go dry.
It takes weeks, maybe even months, of dancing since Watson's realisation. The words finally fly out of Holmes's mouth though, like he's tired of waiting for Watson to get around to it.
"I don't understand." Watson is saying, his voice raised slightly. "Are you really that heartless, or is caring honestly that difficult for you?"
"Yes, well," Holmes snaps, eyes blazing. "At least my apparent lack of emotion prevents me from going around, falling in love with people who just continue to disappoint me."
The silence is stifling, and then it's broken by the echo of the door slamming behind Watson as he walks out.
"Sometimes I wish for falling, wish for the release. Wish for falling through the air to give me some relief. Because falling's not the problem, when I'm falling I'm at peace. It's only when I hit the ground it causes all the grief."
Watson really hates the jumpers, they're the hardest to look at. As he examines them, it's like he can see flashes of their life above their eyelids - or what their life could've been.
But as he stairs down at the water below him, some small, sad part of him gets it.
He's sitting on a bridge that hangs low over the Thames. He knows the jump won't kill him, just be frightfully cold.
Watson pushes himself off the bridge.
There's that brief moment of bliss, a thrill in his chest as the air rushes in his ears. Then he hits the water, it's icy depths enveloping and swallowing him up. There's another silence, an absolute quiet as he under, the water weighing over his head.
Watson is about to swim to the surface, his lungs are crying for air, but suddenly there are arms wrapping around his shoulders, pulling him ashore. He's too numb to do much, so when they surface, he's surprised by a soaking Sherlock Holmes, looking at him maniacally.
There's an uncomfortable pause, and then, "I was fine." says Watson, his mouth still a little numb around the edges.
Holmes just stares. Watson eyes him, and is about to open his mouth again, when Holmes suddenly punches him squarely in the chest, hard. Watson staggers.
"Don't you ever do anything like that again!" Holmes shouts, breathless. "I thought...I thought..." He trails off.
Watson's chest hurts, but it's not the punch. Holmes is avoiding his gaze, a pained look on his face, his eyes dark.
Watson can't think. Watson doesn't want to think, because he's just realised that everything he had previously thought was wrong.
He grabs Holmes's shoulder, forcing the man to look at him.
"Won't happen again."