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Amnesty#6: 1895
Eliot, Leaf
the_aleator
Title: 1895
Author: the_aleator
Rating: PG
Characters: Watson, Holmes
Verse: ACD/Granada
Word count: 377
A/N: Amnesty #5 - Random Play prompt. I hit a recording of ‘What Wondrous Love is This’ by the St. Anselm College Choir, and I took inspiration from the line that says ‘and through eternity, I’ll sing on’. The title is taken from Vincent Starrett’s poem ‘221B’ .
Warnings:  Note - unbetaed and unedited & completely rushed.
Summary: Holmes is dead, Watson knows, and  yet he still lives.

1895

Holmes died once.

The entire world knows that, and Watson is increasingly reluctant to proclaim his second death in print, for it is real this time, and there is no coming back from it. How do you explain the death of a hero, seemingly immortal, beyond the reach of death?

The question weighs on his soul, dries up his pen and slowly cakes up his soul with bricks and mortar, for what justice was there in his death, that he should be given back for so short a time and taken away again quickly.

Death has been accounted a thief in the night, and Watson knows that all too well, knows it with the heart that looked forward to a retirement on the Downs.

“I miss you, my friend.” He proclaims to a dull, gray headstone, watching with trembling fingers and feeble eyes as the world about him shifts and changes, grows strange in his old age. Holmes would have been able to adapt, much like one of Darwin’s finches.

Watson cannot tell if the world is so different, or if the loss has changed him beyond recognition, if it has made him slow to joy and eager to dwell in the past.

But the word will be his salvation, as he scratches each next word more eagerly than the last, hungry to see how Holmes will solve the next case and see to the rightness of the world. In many ways, Holmes the character has become his friend just as Holmes the man was, but it is never the same.

Yet Watson contents himself with the thought that for many, it will always be Baker Street and Holmes and Watson, and the England of Victoria in 1895.

In their hearts, as in his, love for the great detective still sprung and would spring, grown by his stories and remembered through the years.

He writes to himself, that Holmes lived always, and changes it, with a musing smile, for that wasn’t quite right.

Holmes lives always.


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This makes me wonder just how Holmes died even though it's irrelevant to how Watson carries on in his absence (which seems very true to character). And yes, Holmes lives always. :)

This is beautifully written. The fourth sentence... stunning.

Edited at 2013-08-12 02:53 pm (UTC)

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