PLEASE READ! Thank you thank you hello hi hey. This is my first fanfiction published here, and the first time I've published anywhere at all in about two or three years. If you haven't read the books then this is a tiny tiny bit of a spoiler, but most of this is chalked up to my imagination. I wont let you in on exactly what happens in the books and what doesn't, but we're assuming this takes place in some world that is a mix between Guy's Sherlock and Doyle's Sherlock. The narratives starts off basically after Sherlock and Moriarty tumble over off the balcony place at the end of AGoS. Please bare with my writing, I'm a bit rusty. This story is slash, mind you, but the slashy goodness doesn't start until about chapter 2 I think. I apologize ahead of time for the ridiculous first chapter! \(. ^ .)/ Thanks and nice to meet you all!
The public must know of my tendency to chronicle things. I am a doctor and a military man and it is ingrained into my being to remember precise dates and times and events as clearly and as truthfully as humanly possible. Outside of my record keeping in my practice, which I have sold by this time, it is my duty to record the adventures of my friend, Sherlock Holmes. It is time once again to record our time together, but this time not in a fantastic way where I glorify our journeys and solved riddles. This time, it is crucial to understand what has happened in between the adventures.
My time with Mary was undoubtedly wasted. I spent most of my days doing business, which I continued more for the sake of being distracted than for the sake of income. The days I had no clients (or more so every waking moment I spent not doctoring) I thought about him. I had watched him take Moriarty down the falls with him, which weighed heavy on me until I received the package, which I assumed came from the man himself. It was a strange feeling, really. The pain in my heart had miraculously lifted at the sight of the small oxygen tank, though it was only minutes before my giddiness wore off and a new problem burdened me. Where was Holmes? What had happened? When would I be able to see him again?
There was a disgusting film that had settled over the city of London. Sherlock Holmes was nowhere to be seen and it seemed as though no one, save for Mycroft, had any doubts that he was dead. I am still bitter toward myself for not consulting Mycroft on this matter, seeing as he had undoubtedly pieced it all together for himself in a matter of seconds and could probably have told me his exact location. Leave it to my pride to prevent me from asking where my closest friend was. Sometime during this excursion Sherlock had so abruptly taken, Mary had fallen ill. Sometimes I think it must have been my own doing. Mary had always been so fragile and it was more than obvious that my detachment had taken it's toll on her. It was just that to what extent it had affected her I was never sure.
I tried what I could with Mary. I denied patients to tend to her and I spent my spare time at her bedside, though it shames me to admit that my mind was forever on Sherlock. Even in my own wife's downfall I was unable to get the bloody man out of my mind. Time and time again I have been told what a chivalrous military man and doctor I was, but inside I was really just a coward who had long ago become helplessly bound to the greatest detective in London, and likely all of the world. She withered slowly, her sad smile still a fresh memory. When I think of Mary my mind only jumps to her last few weeks, her sweet, sad eyes glistening despite her body's failure. I think that all of the while, Mary knew that it was Sherlock that came first in my life, and I could not feel guiltier about it. Mrs. Watson was a beautiful girl with the kindest disposition and such a right head on her shoulders. She should have had better from me.
The day of Mary's funeral had an especially peculiar impact on me. It was the year proceeding her death that I find particularly confusing and somewhat shameful. After attending the service I was inclined to venture back to the place I had not been since the case with Moriarty, the only place I thought I could find peace amongst the muddy waters of my mind; 221B Baker Street. My head was obviously not right for heading back there in the first place, but I was greeted warmly by Mrs. Hudson. She informed me that Mycroft had miraculously ventured to the apartment to speak to her himself. Supposedly, Mycroft had told Mrs. Hudson to keep the address exactly as Holmes had left it (which seemed fine by Mrs. Hudson for she was not prepared to touch anything in those rooms anyhow). This, of course, played into this next odd chapter of my life.
I started visiting Baker Street more and more often, Mrs. Hudson more than happy to see me. It was as if, even though Sherlock had been a burden to say the least, she too was somewhat out-of-tune when he was not there. We spent a few afternoons together throughout the year, she would prepare me tea and we would sit and make small talk, trying not to turn to the subject of our missing piece. Truth be told, I had become accustomed to life with both of them, not just Sherlock. Seeing Mrs. Hudson would prove comforting during that time period, though because of the events which took place, we prefer not to speak of any of the time she spent aware of my "condition," as it was. It must have been only out of pity that she refrained from sending me to a sanatorium, I'm sure.
Eventually I began staying in our old apartment during the day. I neglected my own practice and begun spending time rummaging through Sherlock's belongings (this part I heavily regret not refraining from). I tended to keep out of his more personal things, which were surprisingly few, and focused mainly on the information from our old cases. I studied him while he was gone. Despite the fact that I knew the man better than mostly likely anyone, I was consumed with recovering each day we spent together. There were so many wasted days that I had not recorded. So many moments we spent in the apartment or at dinner or at the opera that I left unwritten. Surely at the time I figured they were merely times to be lived and not relived in such a sentimental fashion, but after he was gone I regretted not writing down even the tiniest of interactions between us. I missed him and I missed him with my whole being.
Around the time that my habit of studying our partnership picked up, something strange, which I am still not able to explain myself, begun happening. Every so often I hear of a couple of cases that I, meaning me alone and not with Holmes, took on. At first, I chalked it all up to being so consumed with the old documents, I must've simply fabricated these times in dreams or in fantasies which were informed by the fresh dirt of our cases being kicked up. Yet, I have the strangest and most puzzling memories of these times. From the bits of my memory that I can cling to, Holmes was there with me as I solved these cases. I can vaguely recall Holmes being there and, as usual, being the crucial piece in the investigations, though this during this time there was something eerily different about him. Holmes kept his hands strangely out of the cases, giving instruction to me and the clients rather than piecing things together himself. It all seems like a faded dream I've had.
Being the partner of the man that I was, in fact, partner to, I had experienced my share of interesting phenomena. I once took a far-from-lethal dose of some poison, which would have no doubt been lethal if Holmes had not recognized the clever trap which I had almost walked into, during one of our cases. Hallucinations were something I was seldom subject to, but I can recognize the sensation. There is a constant feeling that something is askew, that something is unreal here. Immediately after being administered the small amount of poison, I recall Holmes leaning into me and staring me in the eyes, as if checking that I was alright. As I blinked, the colors in Holmes' face began to separate and rejoin in patterns which I had never seen, constantly fluctuating in a way I recognized as impossible. Despite this knowledge that what I had seen was, in fact, not really there, the vivacity of the hallucination kept me in some realm of disconnect. It wasn't real, but I couldn't act against it consciously.
Taking this all into consideration, it is by my grand deduction that I had spent some months hallucinating Holmes. As a medical man, I am well aware of the things that can trigger people, but I never thought that I would be one to succumb to them. Sherlock's "death," mysterious parcel, and then Mary's death quite possibly could have driven me mad. How I detest this theory, but how I have been taught to reason. Loss was something I preferred to keep stiff-lipped about, but it was obvious that these experienced affected me in some strange, psychological way.