[Sherlock Holmes] Death will come and will have your eyes
Title: Death will come and will have your eyes
Fandom: Book> Sherlock Holmes
the Characters: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson
Part: One shot
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1969 Warnings
: Introspective, sad
Note: I dedicate this story to minnow, as a birthday present and thanks for everything ... ... so there!
WILL 'DEATH AND YOUR' YOUR EYES
The event that I shall now describe is perhaps the deepest of my whole entire life. It is an event that I remember with pleasure bitter, perhaps dictated by the fact that most are not repeated.
All - or rather, all those who approached with a certain loyalty to my writings - they know what happened at the end of June 1902, when I and my faithful companion, Holmes, catching red-handed man who had presented to us as John Garrideb, while in reality it was nothing less than the Killer Evans.
I was slightly wounded in the leg, and if already the pain I felt was in no way comparable to what I experienced in war, when I injured my shoulder, the reaction of my friend made me completely forget my , albeit slight, otherwise.
For a moment his face was transfigured into a mask of sheer terror, his eyes were as loose, revealing his human nature, usually hidden beneath the surface layer, ironically, of his genius.
After making sure I was fine, his eyes were back on Evans, I remember his words safe, hard as stone, addressed to him that I had just shot, I procured a strange feeling in your gut.
decided to put aside my thoughts in a corner of my mind and just devote myself to the man who stood before us.
So we escorted to the Scotland Yard along with Lestrade and his men, and then Holmes had insisted that I go to visit me - something which I judged at the same an early time, because it showed again to be concerned about me, but also offensive, because I would be able to treat me alone.
But I decided to oblige, but the real reason for my performance I was not entirely clear, or rather I did not want to be clear.
The event that upset me so much inside, and that still upsets me, it happened during the trip between the hospital and Baker Street, in a carriage.
Me and my friend were sitting on opposite sides. I looked at the road that ran through the glass, trying to make my thoughts in order and confused to understand the causes of that strange sensation above.
Strangely, when Holmes had addressed to Evans even then a so-veiled threat of death, I had felt safe, as if nothing and no one could hurt me until I was with my friend.
I say strangely because in reality I had just the facts proved the contrary. I was with him and I had just been wounded. The
because of my feelings tormented me, and went to inextricably bind to many others feel that at times felt like nature. And everything about him, Sherlock Holmes, my dearest friend.
Until then I had been frightened by certain thoughts, exactly the kind confusing and not well defined.
But that day, just thinking about the events that took place, feeling his gaze on me, I was afraid. I was afraid because I was finally able to give a name to the feelings that stirred my soul whenever I was near Holmes.
And I also felt ashamed, deeply.
I moved uncomfortably, attracting his attention.
"My dear friend, I hope you are well."
He looked at me with those cold eyes that had always marked, so different from those that were laid on me a few hours before.
His eyes hurt me more than ever, increasing my feeling discomfort.
"Yes, it's all right."
replied, looking Somewhere over his shoulder.
look into his eyes at that moment would have meant him to understand the nature of my feelings. A thought crossed my
suddenly, leaving me breathless.
How could I be sure that he had not already guessed, he always so attentive to every detail?
if he knew why he had not done so let me understand, as was his habit when I did not understand something?
His gaze was now directed out the window, bored.
I had the opportunity to observe, for the first time conscious of my feelings for him.
been years now that I knew him, years during which we grow old together. And never, I had looked like at that time.
I could not lie to myself, my interest in Holmes was not to be purely moral. I do not know when it was changed, how long to go on like this, but I was no longer able to control my gaze traveled to his figure.
A thought without any logic took hold of my mind, preventing me from thinking rationally else.
I wondered why they were so agitated, if his interest in me could be of a similar nature to mine.
As I pulled the curtains of my window, still looking, I should think that I was Sherlock Holmes in front of me, and that if there was already a vague and slight chance that he felt something for me, certainly would consider to be unfair.
would consider to be unfair and not so much immorality in itself, but because they have feelings for him would be an enemy to his mind and cold logic. The passion and the feeling was not suitable for himself, let alone love.
But at that moment I did not think clearly at all, and began to approach him, I did not think that my act would have catastrophic consequences for my spirit.
Holmes immediately noticed the light in my hand that was missing. He opened his mouth, surely to say something, but froze, watching.
I pulled the curtain of his side also.
I was before him now, sitting on the edge of the seat, so there was very little distance between our two bodies.
"My friend, what will you do?" His voice
was firm, is tinged with irony, as usual, but his eyes betrayed some concern.
I did not mean that he was afraid of me. I would not be forced to do anything against his will, nor was I sure I want it.
still consider this a purely wrong and immoral, but I felt like a pipe dream had taken possession of my soul, pushing me in a gesture that I did not think possible.
lifted his arm and put my hand on my companion's cheek, the little beard that covered, makes the skin rough.
His eyes, absolutely incomprehensible, my eyes trying to understand - or more likely, have confirmation - the reason that prompted me to do what I was doing, but I followed the movement of my fingers on his skin.
I would have had to stop, but continued to run my fingers over his face. And so I touched his chin and traced circles around his lips, then went back on his nose, I drew the outlines of his eyes, spianai the first wrinkles of old age begin to appear on the forehead.
sank his fingers through his hair now streaked with gray, and a sigh I came out between his lips. They were incredibly soft.
His eyes caught mine.
Without realizing it I began to get close to him, the more than I was already much more than that to the rule imposed.
My heart was pounding in my chest shamefully, scared of what I was doing and its possible reaction could push me away, react in a violent manner. But so far not had any sign of disdain those that could be defined with one word, touch, even if its immobility did not make me hopeful.
In fact, as soon as my lips were a breath from her, Holmes turned his head to the side, staring on the curtain.
I hastily retreated to my seat, opening the curtain, making so that the low evening sun entered the carriage, my eyes shining bright.
I heard again his gaze on me and I turned to stare. Again, his eyes became liquid, if possible tender.
But it was only a minute, one second of his humanity on that cold mask.
never spoke of what happened that night in late June of 1902. We behave as if nothing had ever happened.
Again and again he demonstrated that a trifle to me, over and over again that I had tried what seemed a clumsy approach by a person who knew everything about almost anything, but did not know none of Most important of all.
But I never understand those of the above mentioned approaches, offended by his refusal, ashamed of my sick and impure thoughts that I had taken during that trip in a carriage.
Without knowing, however, that I would have regretted it.
Now that I am here, standing in front of the tombstone of my friend, I can not do more than ignore it.
A tear slides down my cheek, dignified, alone. My shoulders are visibly shaken and I lean on the stick, companion of my last days of old.
The death took him before me, though I was the oldest. His life of excesses, drugs or ingested, they had eaten from the inside.
two years ago I come here every day, and every time I regret. I regret not having tried again, I regret not following my heart proves not to be so different from Holmes.
I spend my boring days alone, with guilt as the only companions. And count the minutes that separate me from my next visit to his grave every time I find myself let slip a tear on my cheek, overwhelmed by guilt, loneliness, thinking how I terribly macho.
And I pray.
I pray that I dead now and that takes me back to him.
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