Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson were
created by the late, and great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. No disrespect
Summary: We only ever hurt the ones we love.
Author's Notes: Written for the 7 deadly sins community on
live journal. Wrath is prompt #3. Please keep in mind that this
ficlet is unbetaed and contains Australian spelling. If you find a
mistake then feel free to point it out to me.
Comments:Are welcome and can be sent to firstname.lastname@example.org
As my reading public will attest, I have over the years of my
association with Sherlock Holmes shared a great deal of our lives and
adventures together. There of course remains an equal amount about
the great detective and myself untold, but for reasons of propriety
and the sake of both our reputations' will continue among my most
guarded of secrets, ultimately to be carried to my grave.
And it is herein my problem lies.
Throughout my published manuscripts I have alluded numerous times
to the fact that Holmes is a far from easy man to live with. However,
the words alone do not give any real indication of the true
difficulties I have endured since I first agreed to share rooms with
him. No one knows Holmes as I do and I dare say that most of what I
have written about his sometimes dark moods has been perceived as no
more than artist licence and has been given, if any, little credence.
I tell myself it is the price I must pay for my sins, for the path
I have chosen willingly and without regret.
With perhaps the exception of Mrs Hudson and the occasional
unsuspecting client, I am often the only living soul to bear witness
to the true depths of Holmes's darkest moods, and always the one left
alone in the aftermath of one of his rages.
It was in the wake of one such rage, when thankfully there were no
clients to see and Mrs Hudson had gone to visit an elderly neighbour
that I first decided to record the details here, within the pages of
my private journal.
As I had no other to share my burden with I had initially intended
it as a way of preserving my sanity -- perhaps help me to understand
why after all Holmes and I had shared I still managed to incur
his wrath in a manner that left me more alone with my secrets than
ever. I would never compare my powers of deduction to his but if I
could only deduce what had happened then there was the possibility I
could avoid another such occurrence in the future. Or so I had hoped.
Sadly, many years have past since I first took up my pen. And as
I sit here now, the all too damning evidence of yet another of one
Holmes's outbursts strewn about my room, the heavy scent of male musk
and his favoured brand of pipe tobacco permeating my linens, I know
that I had my answer long ago and only ignorance has delayed my final
acceptance of it.
At the onset of our intimate relationship I thought to blame
Holmes's frequent use of narcotics for the worst of his moods, but
his subsequent forgoing of the needle during the case I shared with the
world as the Devil's foot revealed a man no less inclined to
irritation than before and made little difference to our overall
Over the years I have also considered that it was simply my
presence in his life that prompted my friend's most destructive of
rages. I was after all, a constant reminder of his failings, the one
who exposed his softer emotions and roused his flesh in ways no woman
had ever succeeded in doing, but I had always discarded the notion as
merely a symptom of my own insecurities.
At least until now.
For the time being Holmes lies upon my bed, exhausted from the
storm of his cresting emotions, sated from the rigorous sex that
always follows one of his outbursts. When he wakes there will be no
mention of what has occurred and what we both know will continue to
reoccur as long as we both shall live. Life in our rooms will return
to what we both accept as the norm and nothing between us will
change. Not my feelings for him, or his for me.
Perhaps it is Holmes's feelings that confuse me the most and
delayed my understanding for so long. It is difficult to say. To
Holmes he is a brain and not a man. I know different however. I have
seen the man, naked and vulnerable, as susceptible to hurt and vice
as any man. I also know, albeit somewhat belatedly, that we only ever
hurt the ones we love, for no other stirs our blood or compels us to
the same level of hostility as one with whom we have shared our
deepest of desires.
Sherlock Holmes page.
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