MirabileLectu

It had been placed there years ago, tucked into an unobtrusive spot where it would be easily missed. The paper has begun to yellow with age, fading from the stark white of its youth into the mellowness of old age as the years come and go around it. Seasons turn, the world revolves, and a simple note tucked into a plain envelope continues to lie in an empty flat, unseen and unread by the one it was meant for.

The one who wrote the note knew, deep down in the soul that ached with the pain of loss, that this would happen. He knew, with the relentlessly logical mind he hated at times like these that his note would sit and slowly crumble to dust with its words never seeing the light of day. But some things must be done even the face of their futility, no matter how illogical or nonsensical they were. And so the note was written, carefully penned in black ink as a heart was poured out onto a page, and it was left in a darkened room to rest in the shadows.

The flat was long abandoned, drained of the warmth that had once filled it and left to sit untenanted and empty when the last resident had fled never to return. Dust settled on every surface, silence lay thick as a blanket, emptiness stretched and grew to fill every corner and stand as sharp counterpoint to the muffled world that still turned outside. All that is left now is the note, and the picture that lays with it, a testament to a time that had ended and the lives that had moved on. And with them, unread and unremembered, a secret too great for words and too painful to be kept, a secret forgotten in a dusty envelope.

-

John,

You will never read this note. I am not enough of a fool to believe that you shall ever hold this paper in your hands, but I am apparently enough of a fool to write it still, and to hope. For that is all I have left, is hope, that most absurd and irresistible of emotions that I have so often derided in others. Even though you have left the flat, likely never to return, I will leave this here for you on the smallest chance that you may perhaps one day stumble upon it, and know why I have done the things that I have done.

I cannot ask for your forgiveness. I know that it is something you can never give, and so I will not beg for it with excuses or denials or empty platitudes. Should we ever meet again, a thing I truly doubt, I do not expect you to welcome me with open arms after what I have done to you. But what I have done, I did for you. All of it, all for you. To save you. I owed you that much - I hope that you can understand that.

I must leave now: London, England, my life, I must leave it all behind. Time is pressing, and there is much to do and nowhere near enough time for it to be done. But that has always been the way for us, hasn't it? So much to accomplish, so little time to do it. And so much left unfinished. I suppose that is the true reason for this note that you will never read - the last thing I must do before I can begin the great work that will take me away from you. The secret I hoarded close to myself, too afraid and unsure to ever let it see daylight. And it will not even see daylight now, locked up inside an envelope that will sit unread for twenty years or more. But it must be said, even just as black ink on white paper, it must be said.

I love you, John. I always have, ever since the night when you gave me the first sincere compliment I had heard since I was a child, since the night you killed a man for me and saved my life in more ways than you could ever know. I love you with all that I have, with all that a damaged heart like mine is capable of giving. And I shall love you for as long as I shall live, even if you have forgotten me. I'll wait for you, John, and the forgiveness you cannot give me. I ask you to believe that I love you, and that it was all for you. And know that I am and always will be

Very sincerely yours,

Sherlock Holmes

P.S. I have enclosed your favorite picture of the two of us, the one from the absurd Scotland Yard party thrown for Lestrade last year. I cannot bear to look at it much longer, and so I leave it here for you, should you ever find it. Keep it well, John. Maybe one day we can share it together once more.

Live well, John.

(Inspired by the song 20 Years by The Civil Wars)

The crack of an exploding firework echoes through the stillness of the black night that is shattered with blinding light. Shadows of towering trees are thrown in sharp relief against the surrounding fields, colors dance across the dark sky, peaceful quiet is broken by the whistles and sizzles of the descending sparks. For one brief, brilliant moment, the sky is alive. And then it all goes still once more.

Down below, far underneath the explosion, two men huddle together in the darkness. Where before they had been intent on their mission, searching out clues and evidence with fierce determination, they are now bent over on the ground in startled stillness, frozen by the sound of the explosion overhead. They had forgotten of course that there would be fireworks set off by the small village they were staying in while they worked on a missing person’s case, or perhaps more accurately they had simply never bothered to learn, focusing instead on the string of clues that had lead them here and then out into a field as darkness fell around them. When Sherlock Holmes is hot on a trail such as this one, there is no distracting him. Especially not for something so trivial as a local festival and fireworks display. 

BOOM

But for the man who is still crouched on the ground with his arms thrown defensively over his head, this is no trivial matter. For John, the explosions pealing out into the night are not a simple outpouring of celebration and joy. For John, out in the pitch-black wilderness with no warning of what was to come, the sudden boom and following hiss of sparks and flame is an echo of a time long past, a time of death and blood and misery in the desert sun. The crack of an exploding firework shell, so similar to the rupture of the mortars that had taken so many lives, send him to his knees as the memories wash over him in unstoppable waves.

BOOM

A friend gunned down in front of him.

BOOM

A young man, gasping and bleeding and dying under his useless hands.

BOOM

Four men, blown to pieces before his eyes. Four men torn apart by an explosion. Four men that he cannot save.

“John?”

A voice breaks through the onslaught of memory and sensation, concerned and confused and far closer than it has any right to be. The voice is familiar, comforting even, but this is all strange, too strange. That voice has no place here in the desert, here surrounded by death and destruction. That voice belongs to London streets in the twilight, to quiet murmurs in the warmth of a flat, to the happiness of home. It is not a voice that should sound this worried about anything, and it is not a voice that should be worried about him of all people. This makes no sense. The world no longer makes any sense.

BOOM

John groans against the wave of memory that washes over him, pressing himself further into the ground so that the enemy will not find him here, defenseless. He nearly jumps out of his skin in fear and surprise when a hand is laid on his shoulder, hesitant and unsure and yet so steady that it does not pull away even in the face of his reaction. The hand remains, the only solid thing in a world overcome by phantoms of the past, the only anchor to hold him in a present that will not hurt him.

“Breathe, John. It’s alright, you’re fine, just breathe.”

He does. Slowly, painfully, and with agonizing effort, he breathes. One breath, then two. Through the memories, through the past, through the shadow of death, he breathes in and out and finally, his vision clears. He is not in the desert, he is not surrounded by the dead and dying, he is in a pitch-black field crouched on the ground in the dirt as fireworks explode overhead. He is safe. And he is with Sherlock, who is kneeling down with him, hand resting gently on his shoulder and face contorted by more concern and worry than it has ever worn before. Lights flicker quickly across his face in dancing blue-red-green, illuminating impossible eyes and shining on pale skin as they flame into life and die just as brilliantly. Sherlock, safe and whole and here for him. Sherlock, worried about him.

John looks at Sherlock, eyes wide and pleading with wordless questions locking in the darkness. He needs more than just a hand of comfort now, and he needs more than simple words of reassurance and the presence of a friend. No matter how it galls him to be this weak, he must ask for a help that he does not want and yet needs more than he could ever admit. He needs Sherlock.

Thankfully, even in the darkness, the message somehow gets across. Sherlock’s eyes widen in shock as he understands, clearly taken aback for a brief moment before he schools his face back into stillness. Silently, without the words of judgment or biting cynicism that John had so feared, he settles himself gently onto the ground and reaches over to pull John over to him. John goes willingly, collapsing bonelessly into the embrace that is waiting for him. Sherlock folds his arms around him as he pulls John into this chest, wrapping him in a hug warmer and more tender than anything John could have ever imagined of him. They sit there in silence for many long minutes as John’s breathing returns to normal, his heartbeat calming, his brain breaking free of the panicked spiral it had been reduced to. The fireworks continue to burst above them, showering them in brilliant blue-red-green, bathing them in light that flickers over the discoveries that wash away all traces of fear.

Closeness and warmth like they have never known, shared in the evening gloom.

Breath, washing over sensitive skin.

A kiss, gentle and tender.

Pain, forgotten.