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SLEEP
SHERLOCK - The Night of the Jump
John, I want you to know that there isn’t anyone else in the world who rates this kind of personal attention from me, or anyone else for whom I would consider doing this. I honestly have no idea when you’ll be able to read this but for the sake of our friendship, I hope it is sooner rather than later.
This is a diary of sorts, an unpublished blog, if you will, meant only for your eyes. When I return, you will understandably have many questions, and perhaps reading this will alleviate the necessity of my having to answer them all. Naturally I will answer the most pressing and poignant, but after attending to your most immediate needs, I anticipate I will want more than anything to slip quietly back into my old habits. I hope you don’t discard my blue dressing gown; rather fond of that.
By the time you read this, I will have explained to you the method used to insure my safety as I jumped from the roof of Bart’s. (A thrill, but not one I’d recommend for everyone.) I will also have explained the reason for the necessity of this action. You will probably not believe or understand me at first. I anticipate mixed emotions in you, my very human friend, when I am finally able to safely stand before you. Let it be stated here and now that I expect you to both embrace and attack me within the space of one minute. We’ll see.
Today, the day of The Jump, I am keeping a low presence. Tomorrow I will seek out and exterminate the three assassins who were assigned to eliminate you, dear Mrs. Hudson, and friend Lestrade. Mycroft’s operatives are keeping close tabs on them, but I have also employed my Homeless Network as I find them more dependable. I will have no trouble finding the would-be assassins tomorrow. Since murder is not my modus operandi, I will devote some time this evening to determining the best method of incapacitating them. Three or four minutes should do the trick.
I know you will have trouble sleeping tonight, and, indeed, for perhaps some time to come. Your tender heart will vilify you. I will say it here now, and again when I can say it to you in person, that I am deeply sorry for the pain I am causing you. In time you will come to understand and accept the reason for my actions. I know if I had conferred with you that you would have offered yourself as a sacrifice for my life and reputation and you would not have taken no for an answer. That is why you are in the position you are.
You are hurting, John, but you are alive. If you were not alive, I would be hurting. Good night.
SHERLOCK - Two Days Later
Good news, of course, on my progress. The assassin Moriarity assigned to you is now nursing his wounds in a city hospital. He will not be able to use a rifle any more. Or play the piano, or make his own tea. Good-looking chap. Perhaps he’ll find an understanding nurse. Not much pension in his line of work, though.
Lestrade’s assassin will be cooling his heels for the rest of his life in the very dungeon he spent a couple of months sending others to. I ensured that it was the same one, to see that he is kept adequately entertained. Poor Lestrade – he must feel that his normally predictable world of trust is crumbling around him. Oh – perhaps I should mention – this professional assassin worked in Lestrade’s office! Within shooting range. Definitely not a worthwhile endeavor to plan the assassination of a senior police officer at police headquarters, wouldn’t you agree?
But Mrs. Hudson’s assassin has taken flight back to Belarus. Godforsaken place. For him, anyhow. I will immobilize him there, but first I wish to attend my own funeral. Thanks be to Mycroft for scheduling it so soon.
This will no doubt surprise you. At 3 pm yesterday I let myself into the flat. Had a selfish desire to see how you were doing. My plan was to check your medications, computer, refrigerator, etc. for indications as to your emotional health. Did not expect to find you at home and was very surprised to find you fast asleep in your chair. Apparently you have abandoned the normal procedure of sleeping in bed. At night. Not a good idea, John – sleeping in chairs can cause painful cricks. Rethink. And try to get back into a regular schedule. The bohemian life works for me but you have always been happiest sticking to a regime.
I was of course delighted to see you but extremely careful not to awaken you. No need as I saw by your medication bottle that you had ingested two extra-strength pills. Again, John, rethink. Trust me when I say drugs are the opposite of the answer. Trust me also when I say that this pain will suddenly end one day. Soon, I hope.
I will find some way to get these messages through to you before you self-destruct.
JOHN - Day Before the Funeral
This kind of thing can’t be put in a blog. Not by me, anyhow. Maybe someday I’ll feel like writing it down for everyone to see, but it’s still way too personal. Sorry, bloggers. Or bloggees. Whatever.
This is for me, no one else. Hah! John Watson, you coward. You think you’ve got courage. You fought the war, you ventured into enemy territory to save the lives of fellow soldiers, once even another surgeon, you won a couple of medals. You saved Sherlock’s life, a couple of times. Did you use your courage for that, or did you cheat and just reason it out? Like Sherlock would have. Except Sherlock had endless courage. Except at the end. At the end he was a coward.
And how can I possibly be more courageous than Sherlock? So I must be a coward, too. There – perfectly deduced, perfectly reasoned. I am a coward.
And worthless, too, because in the end I couldn’t save Sherlock’s life. Even if the cyclist hadn’t knocked me down, there was no way I could have gotten to Sherlock in time to save his life. So now I am a less than worthwhile human being. Why is it I am still alive and Sherlock Holmes is dead? Where is the justice in that? Where is the justice in a world where the greatest man I have ever known takes his own life and I – a worthless coward – am forced to live and hurt every day in every memory? Dear God, how am I going to get through this funeral?
When I see my therapist, she will tell me I am wrong. She will point out the things I have done that prove I am not a coward. And I will listen politely and make an attempt to do whatever it is she wants of me. Sometimes successful, usually not. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t feel it like I do. It hurts so
JOHN – Morning of the Funeral
Been taking medication to sleep, against my own beliefs. Found a magazine today on the kitchen table, opened to a page about alternate sleeping methods. Natural things. Some sound good; maybe I’ll try them some day. Don’t remember putting the magazine there, though; maybe it’s Mrs. Hudson’s. Bless her.
Just looked at what I wrote yesterday and never finished it, I guess. Can’t remember why not. Can’t remember much of anything these days. Thinking is foggy. The only thing that works well is feeling. And, my God, why does that have to be?!!! Someone tell me! How am I going to get through this day?
JOHN – Immediately After the Funeral Ceremony
All right, I have to admit it was, well . . . as nice as possible. It was very Sherlock. No bagpipes, just violin music. Didn’t recognize the pieces except for the one that Sherlock wrote that I gave to Mycroft to give to the funeral director. That piece still haunts me. And Mycroft does, too, I guess. He’s been unusually nice to me since the . . . OK, the fall. At first I blamed most of this on him, but it wasn’t really his fault. This was just destined to happen. Maybe it would have happened later If Mycroft hadn’t gotten involved, but it still would have happened. A spirit as strong as Sherlock’s has to burn itself out sooner or later. This thought is new to me and smothers me. But I press on.
Mycroft asked me to speak at the funeral but I knew I couldn’t. Thought of lots to say but couldn’t speak without choking, so I declined. Sherlock wouldn’t have wanted to have weepers at his funeral. I got the feeling he was looking down from above and judging everything. I hope it met with his approval. Mycroft spoke and mercifully he said only kind things. Always suspected he had it in him. Or maybe he’s just feeling guilty. Feeling? A Holmes brother? And Greg Lestrade spoke, too. Have to admit I almost lost it too when he broke down. Had to look at my shoes for a while before I could chin up again. I’m going to ask both of them for transcripts of their speeches; maybe someday I’ll have the courage to read them. It’s going to take years, I think. God, I miss Sherlock!
It was a surprise to see how many people attended the funeral, and even more of a surprise to see how many people volunteered to be pallbearers. Bless her, I think even Mrs. Hudson would have liked to lend a hand. I held her close when the pallbearers stepped forward. She needed the comfort. There were too many pallbearers – Greg and Mike Stamford and Henry Knight and Mycroft and Dimmick and that kidnapped banker, whose name I forget right now (sorry) and, well, lots more volunteered. All I know is that a place was saved for me at the front. This was something I could do without breaking down so I wholeheartedly worked at the task. It was mercifully mindless. At least until we got to the gravesite. Then it really hit home. I remember stumbling backward and almost falling. It seemed like some invisible hand kept me upright. The hand of God? Haven’t noticed much of that lately.
More words and a sprinkling of dirt and Mrs. Hudson clung on to me and turned her face to my shoulder. Mrs. Hudson, I will always be grateful to you for allowing me to bury my face in your hair. It smelled like lemons or oranges and I concentrated on the smell to get me through the next few minutes. Forevermore I will think of Sherlock sadly when I smell oranges.
And I will think of Sherlock a lot in this wretched life of mine. He let me know I wasn’t a coward and he supported me when I needed it and he accepted me as I was, even liking me. No, I’ll say it, even if he didn’t – he felt love for me. I don’t think he felt much, but I do believe he felt actual love for me. And for a while there I was the luckiest person in the world. It had to end, didn’t it? All relationships have to end. But, as God is my witness, I never doubted Sherlock, never cared to be anything but 100% devoted to him. And, yes, I did love him. Very much. Sherlock, I hope you knew that.
JOHN – After the Funeral Dinner
Mycroft paid for it. He paid for everything. And he told me he wanted me to continue living at 221B and he would pay for that, too. I told him no, it would hurt too much to live there (well, I didn’t use those actual words) and he hemmed and hawed like he always does, and then it came out. I was left nothing in Sherlock’s will except his desire that I remain at 221B and a bequeathal to allow me to live there for many years. This was surprising to me at first. I hadn’t actually thought Sherlock was as rich as all that, and, if he was, it was surprising he didn’t leave me anything. But when I thought about it, it made perfect sense. Sherlock appreciated a comfortable home, and since he appreciated me also, he would not leave me wanting. I needed a place to live. Although it will hurt at first, I believe that it will become a comfort to live there. It will be my home now and the memories will surround me. I don’t ever want to forget Sherlock Holmes – who he was, and how we lived, and how he affected and changed my life. Before I left, I told Mycroft I would accept. He seemed relieved, which surprised me. Why would he care?
There were a few other surprises, but nothing major. Saw Major Barrymore! Also one of the Cross Keys boys. And a few of Sherlock’s Homeless Network. Sarah was there and offered her condolences by hugging me; she brought her new boyfriend. I was surprised but glad that neither Anderson nor Sally Donovan attended. Lots of admiring police, though. That warmed my heart. Henry’s therapist was there and tried to get me to talk but I wouldn’t. I didn’t really talk to anyone – not about anything that mattered, not about the pain. In fact, the longest conversation I had was with Mycroft. Had to avoid the pain somehow, so moved around. I was like a butterfly, flitting from flower to flower. Hah! John Watson, the social butterfly. Comes into full bloom at a funeral. What a coward.
No, John, quit telling yourself that. Sherlock Holmes would not have associated with a coward. You’re not a coward. You’re simply a man who had the supreme good luck to come into contact with a very special human being who had a need for your company. No doubt the world would be a happier place if everyone could have that kind of luck.
But then, when it ends . . . It ends. It is over. Sherlock is gone, gone by his own hand. The funeral-goers have packed up and gone back to their own homes, back to their loved ones. Maybe some have actually grieved, but I doubt it. They can stop grieving now, now that they’re with the people they genuinely care about. No, I’m not a coward. I will stay here on this earth and I will grieve for Sherlock for a very long time. It will take courage to do that.
SHERLOCK – After the Funeral Dinner
It was a very nice funeral. Nicest I’ve ever been to. Yes, John, I was actually there. Couldn’t resist - I was made up to look like one of my Homeless Network - stooped over and wearing a short brown coat and baggy trousers. Hired a professional from the entertainment industry to make up my face to look fat and my eyes to look sunken. With the coke-bottle glasses, not you or anyone else would have recognized me. Not quite true – Mycroft did. He almost gave it away when he looked surprised at my presence; apparently when we arranged The Fall I neglected to mention to him that I would attend my own funeral. By the way, John, you spoke to me! You seemed to be speaking to as many people as you could. When you spied me, you tried to smile and you held out your hand and asked me if I was one of Sherlock’s friends. You told me how much you appreciated that I came to show my respect for someone who meant so much to you. I shook your hand, mumbled something, and slunk away. Remember? Thank you, John, for your kind words. They have touched my heart. You have touched my heart, as you have always since the Lady in Pink. You were not the lucky one; I was. I have always enjoyed the ability to elicit strong emotions in you. Being away from you has made me wonder why that is.
You would not approve of my eavesdropping methods, but I will be forever grateful for the insight into your heart that I have witnessed lately. I have seen you at the funeral. And I have read all your journal pages. Your sorrow torments me.
Thank you for so many many things. For letting Mycroft organize my funeral even though I’m sure you felt slighted. For having my favorite violin composition played. For honoring my request that you remain at Baker Street. For saving my life in the past, and for trying to save it this time. For caring. For being my friend, for being my friend, for being my friend.
I will always remember the devastated look on your face as you approached the grave. It was not the hand of God but my hands that supported you as you faltered. Never again will I be the cause of such a look on your face. Be at peace, friend John.
You will be fine. I have seen you. I have returned to Baker Street three times, two of which you were actually home and sleeping with the help of those pills. You are strong, one of your greatest traits. In time you will stop grieving. I very much hope I can manage to return to your life before then, but if I can’t, you will persevere. As I say, there is much work I have to do before you will be safe, and I have already begun. But you will be fine; I will see to it. Moriarity said I am one of the angels. He was right – I will be your guardian angel.
Tonight I leave for Belarus and expect to be out of England for several months. It will be best if I do not itemize all that I must do to eliminate Moriarity’s network. It will be much work, but I am up to it. The hardest work of all will be making sure no one but Mycroft knows of my existence. No – perhaps the hardest thing of all will be trying to accomplish everything without my faithful friend by my side. And the greatest encouragement will be the knowledge that when I finally accomplish what I must, I’ll be able to return to Baker Street and the life that we both enjoyed. While I am on the Continent, I will be bolstered by the thought of our reunion. It is easy for me to picture your face when you find out I am still alive, and I can even imagine my own feelings at our reunion. Before we met, that would have been impossible. Letting you see my feelings has never been dangerous for me; you have never hurt me. I trust you, I care about you, and yes – I do feel love for you. It seems you’ve always brought out the best in me. You have taught me so much. These thoughts sustain me. I promise I will return to Baker Street as soon as I can. But, in the meantime, I have wondered what I could do for you to repay you for your sentiment.
And I have come up with an answer. Tomorrow a young woman will visit you. A package has been delivered to her in “error,” and she will make a personal attempt to deliver it to its rightful addressee, Sherlock Holmes. You will be faced with the sad chore of explaining to her that I no longer exist. She is pretty, John, and, unless I am very much mistaken, she is the type of woman whose company you enjoy – compassionate, happy, caring, kind. No doubt she will encourage you to speak of your sad story and offer you comfort. I believe the two of you will continue to enjoy each other’s company for some little time. Hopefully my arrangement of this meeting will help to make up for some small bit of the pain I have caused you, and that she will provide a pleasant diversion until my return. Watch for her – her name is Mary.
You will sleep well tomorrow night, I predict.
JOHN – Two Months Later
“THE PERSONAL BLOG OF JOHN H. WATSON”
Profuse apologies to those of you who have been waiting faithfully for me to start writing again. I’m sure you understand why it was impossible for me to continue this blog under the circumstances.
When Sherlock Holmes died, a part of me died with him. I missed him terribly and found it too painful to write. I was even unable to speak at the funeral. But Sherlock Holmes deserves a proper eulogy, so here is mine, finally.
Our first meeting involved a glimpse at his arrogance and his genius, and it ended after only a couple of minutes with a wink from Sherlock.
There was nothing normal about our introduction and first meeting. I was stunned by his rapid-fire deductions about me, all correct. I’d never had anyone wink at me before. His self-assurance was phenomenal. I felt as if I’d been attacked but I held my ground. And then, just like that, he was gone.
He is gone again now, for good this time. But so much has happened between that meeting and the day he jumped from the roof of St. Bart’s. Much of it I related to you, my loyal reading public. Looking back over some of those blogs, I realize now that sometimes I didn’t show Sherlock in the most flattering light. He wasn’t the easiest person to live with and he seldom took other people’s feelings into consideration, but I do not hesitate at all to say that he was the finest man I have ever met. There will never be another Sherlock Holmes, and we are all the worse for that.
Sherlock was a proper genius. He had the brain of a computer, nerves of steel and boundless energy. He invented the vocation of consulting detective and no one will ever be able to do it as well as he did. He astounded me, and so many other people, with his lucid and always correct deductions. The smallest detail did not escape him and offered him a world of information. Many criminals are behind bars because of his untiring work. I confess he was difficult to keep up with. Often he had to slow his pace to allow me to catch up, physically or mentally.
I considered it a great honor that he allowed me to assist him in his investigations and relate them to you through my blog. He was my great friend and we were loyal to each other. I will always defend his memory. He was the greatest man I ever met and much of my life revolved around him. In fact, until recently I found it difficult to manage without him. There were moments I thought I couldn’t go on; but something has happened to change all that.
This is the changed Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson. I’m adding the “Dr.” title from now on, because I am actually a doctor. And you might be interested to know that I have now found gainful employment in medicine! I am working day shift at one of the clinics near Central London and I am finding this work very enjoyable. And my personal life has taken a big turn for the better in other ways! I won’t reveal any details now because this blog is devoted to Sherlock, but if you continue to read my blogs, you will be treated to a different kind of story. Not the adventures with Sherlock Holmes that have thrilled you in the past, but stories of a more human nature. Because I am free now to be Everyman, to have a more normal kind of life, whatever that means. I enjoyed the life of adventure that I led with Sherlock, but I am looking forward to particularly enjoying this new life as well. I will never forget the affection I felt for Sherlock.
But I have moved on. Dr. John Watson is in love!
And finally sleeping well.
Good-bye, Sherlock. Good night, friends.
SHERLOCK
One final note before I close this correspondence.
Sherlock Holmes was wrong. I was wrong and it is possibly the most important thing that ever happened to me. I was wrong about you, John. I thought you needed me. I was wrong.
Emotions can kill. They can kill quickly, a fact on which I have based my occupation. Or they can kill slowly. I watched them slowly killing you and I tried my hardest to come to your rescue before they could complete the job. But you didn’t need to know I was still alive in order to rally back to life yourself. You managed it on your own. Before I could eliminate the threats to our safety, before I could return to you and our previous enjoyable life, before I could be a knight in shining armor, you managed to prove that you didn’t have need of me in order to be happy. A complete reversal of our circumstances. Before I met you, John, I needed no one. But you proved yourself invaluable to me, and you taught me things that I never would have dreamed I’d find important. But now I need you, and you no longer need me.
So now, unless I can manage to un-learn all these passions and sentiments, these emotions will slowly kill me. And I don’t think I can un-learn them because I was once happy, and it was a good life.
I wish our lives could be the way they were before. But I understand that it is quite impossible now. John, please believe me when I say I am glad that you have found someone who makes you happy. You deserve nothing less. I enjoyed the limited time we had together and would like to believe that I was capable of making you happy then. But those days are over. And, yes, John, I do feel sadness at that thought. I have become a human being.
Am I selfish? Yes. Why would any human not be? And as a human being, I am fallible. I did not anticipate your continued association with Mary. Instead I merely expected she would provide the comfort you desperately needed, and it would be a temporary relationship. It should have ended as all your other relationships ended. Since it did not, my plans have changed.
These notes I have taken will be buried with me and never shown to you. More importantly, I will continue to allow you to believe that I did not survive the fall. I will not re-appear to the world and will continue permanently to live the underground existence that I have since the fall. Only Mycroft knows of my existence. I have used the word “existence” twice. This is not a mistake. It is merely an existence if you have no real reason for being, no one to care about you. I have lived it before, and I will live it again.
I shall not intrude on your life, John, and risk ruining everything for you. As I said before, you deserve the best. You will continue to remember me warmly and, after all is said and done, what more could any human want?
And when I think of you, it will be with fond memories, John. For you are truly the best and wisest friend any man could ever have had.
Good-bye, John.