[personal profile] wave_of_sorrow
Title: All The Fragile Things
Author: [livejournal.com profile] wave_of_sorrow
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Holmes/Watson (if you want to read it that way)
Verse: Unspecified
Rating: G
Word Count: 737
Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't claim. No money being made.
Watson cradles the letter Holmes left him to his chest as though it were something precious and fragile, not knowing how infinitely more precious and fragile the letter he will never read is.
Spoilers/Warnings: spoilers for FINA
A/N: Fill for a prompt at [livejournal.com profile] shkinkmeme Based on/inspired by Stuck in A Moment You Can't Get Out Of by U2. As always, no need to know the song for the story to make sense.

Comments and ConCrit are ♥!

Holmes is rarely afraid, never scared. He likes to think that there is nothing in this world that he hasn’t already heard. He spends his days trying to do the right thing, pursuing justice without expecting to ever really find it. All he is trying to find is a melody to play in his own company, a sense of peace that seems to slip out of his grasp whenever he comes near it.

Looking down Reichenbach Falls, Holmes has to realize that there are many things he has never heard or seen or felt before.

He watches Watson go from denial to despair in the space of a few minutes and, though he knows that it is impossible, he fancies he can still hear Watson’s tears splash onto the rocks. Watson cradles the letter Holmes left him to his chest as though it were something precious and fragile, not knowing how infinitely more precious and fragile the letter he will never read is.


Dearest Watson,

There are many things I should have said to you while we still had the time, but I said none of them and instead of burdening you with them now I shall say only this:

I never thought you were a fool, Watson. Your inability to master your emotions is one of the many reasons I love you so. All I ask of you now is to stand up straight and carry your own weight and leave me behind. You need not carry the weight of the dead. I will not say ‘do not weep’, but now is not the time for grief or for sorrow. These tears will get you nowhere, dearest.

I still remember how much meeting you felt like yanking dusty curtains apart to let the sunlight in. You were like an explosion of colour and light, like Chinese fireworks in the night sky. And all those days spent running through London, all those evenings in the sitting room, all those nights you filled with fireworks just to coax the smallest of smiles from me, they left you with nothing. I left you with nothing.

I am still enchanted, mesmerized by the light you brought to me. I still wish I could listen through your ears and see the world through your eyes. Would it be like looking through glasses tinted with compassion?

I am well aware that this will not be easy for you, but don’t waste your time worrying. Don’t be a fool. Don’t allow yourself to get stuck here, in this moment. I know that you feel as if this was the end, but it isn’t. It’s a long way down to nothing at all, and you aren’t even halfway there. There is so much for you out there, so much to do and live and love.

You need to get yourself together, get out of this place, this moment that you’re trying so hard to cling to and get stuck in. Don’t wait. Don’t linger. Don’t say that later will be better. Just leave this - me, us, all of it - leave it behind and let it go.

Now this is the important part, Watson, the part I want you to remember: If the lonely darkness of the night spills over into your days, and if the daylight won’t last, and if you falter along the way and can’t go on - it’s just a moment, these times will pass.

I remain, sincerely yours,

Sherlock Holmes


Holmes watches as Watson slowly tries to compose himself and gather up the pieces of his heart, some forever lost to the greedy jaws of the falls. It feels as though he is seeing everything through the haze of a nightmare, vision blurred and fraying at the edges. He fancies that seeing Watson’s retreating form grow smaller and smaller before disappearing into the distance feels a lot like falling. Only he never hits the bottom.

He crumples the unread letter and throws it down into the mouth of the falls, to lie there and rest alongside broken hearts and unspoken words; all the fragile things in the world to be washed away and get lost in the seas of time.

Were he a sentimental man, Holmes would look back. But he is not, and so he doesn’t see the ink bleed black and mix with swirling crimson and, finally, disappear like a melody will dissolve into the air.
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