Disclaimer: Sherlock is the property of ACD. I do not profit from this.

Author's Note: Title and quotations taken from Jack Gilbert's poem, 'Failing and Flying'.

Written for 'tocourtdisaster' for Holmestice 2011 over at LJ.

Failing and Flying

I Failing

"Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew"

John Watson was not a man to hold to illusions. He was well aware of his strengths, his failings, how people perceived him – even before he got shot in the shoulder and came out of it with a limp.

If he had to describe himself in one word, he would choose... 'unremarkable'. He was an average, English bloke whose sole distinction came from the life choices he had made. He added a prefix to his name that not many people shared by completing medical school, following the road life had nudged him on to. He added another uniform and a lifetime's worth of nightmares to the mix when he joined the army. He fought a war in a country no invading army had ever successfully conquered. He bled for his Queen and people and was sent home to be less of a man he had been before he had left. He returned as a person who had killed, and a person who had healed.

He was unremarkable. He was purposeless. The bareness of his blog reflected the state of his life. He flew under the radar, so to speak, of everyone he met. An ordinary man, with an ordinary name and a suitably ordinary face. People would encounter him, perhaps make a judgement that here before them was a good man. And then promptly forget about him as soon as he was not in front of them.

Out of sight, out of mind, indeed.

If only he could have done the same with Afghanistan, now that he was back in London; amongst the concrete and cold instead of the sand and heat. He was not so self-pitying as to think that if he were to die the next day, no-one would notice for a month. After all, the landlord of his bed-sit was nothing if not thorough when it came to collecting rent every two weeks.

He was a broken man, he was the first to admit it. It was one thing to be left without a purpose, and quite another to be left without the motivation to venture out into the world again to change his circumstance. How was he meant to hold down a job? Who would want a doctor with a trembling hand, a lurching limp and PTSD? What woman would want to spend the night in his bed where he could potentially injure her through his unconscious thrashings?

Unremarkable. His life truly was unworthy of remark.

Then, of all things, he went for a walk in a park. It could have been a different park.

He walked past a bench where a man sat having lunch. He could have walked past other benches.

But he didn't walk in a different park, past a different bench where a different man sat.

And later on that night, as he took to the internet to find out more about the man he might share a flat with soon, he had no reason to think that the man would soon be the Deadalus to his Icarus.

That Sherlock Holmes, through his genius, brilliance, sheer madness, would fashion for him wings of wax with which to fly.

And fly he did. Higher than he had ever done in his life ever before. Over the streets and alleys of London, over the rooftops and the bridges. Over humanity. Breaking free from all that once held him back, held him down.

He didn't know what he had done to deserve such a gift, for that was what it was, but he wasn't going to question it.

And from the very first day of his new found freedom, he was warned. Sally Donovan. Greg Lestrade. Mycroft Holmes, in his own way. They might as well have tried telling a once-blind man to not take advantage of his newly gained sight, to keep his eyes closed. That the true sight of the world was best kept from him, perfect only in his unconfirmed imaginings.

He was still an unremarkable man, in spite of everything Sherlock Holmes had brought to his life. He was the Icarus to Sherlock's Daedalus. Simply flying behind the greater man on the wings created extra for him. Escaping together from a prison they hadn't known the other also inhabited. The only reason Icarus of myth was a name familiar to all was as a lesson in humility. To tell all those who dared to exceed their abilities that they could only fall. A warning to keep their arrogance in check.

He wouldn't be surprised if years later, his name would be brought up in conversation, if at all, as "That Watson fellow who followed Sherlock Holmes everywhere and got himself killed."

He'd already compromised himself. Even if he didn't die because of his wings of wax, how could he ever settle for a life on the ground again? A life without Sherlock Holmes and the excitement, adrenaline, purpose which enveloped all those who came close enough to the man? He was ruined already.

He could not land. He would not, ever again. So why not fly higher and higher instead?

II Flying

"I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell,
but just coming to the end of his triumph."

You could say Sherlock Holmes was Daedalus, the provider of the means with which John used to destroy himself.

You could also say that Sherlock Holmes was the sun that, by virtue of what he was, burned the wings that enabled John to fly and sent him falling into the sea to his death.

He'd been cautioned.

Stay away from Sherlock Holmes.

Could be dangerous.

He ignored them all. He'd killed a man for Sherlock in less than 48 hours of having known him.

He'd gotten a taste of what it was like to soar. How could they ever expect him to ever settle for less?

It was hard work, his life with Sherlock. It was oft painful, and tiring. It didn't take him long to know that he'd readily give up his life for Sherlock's, but that was hardly a new fact in his life, considering he'd been a soldier. What worried him sometimes was simply the lines he knew he'd cross to keep Sherlock safe. The darkness in him that he usually kept well-hidden but would tap into if it meant his flatmate would be kept from harm.

So he bought the milk. He did the legwork that Sherlock could not tolerate because it meant further social interaction than was necessary now that John was around.

He chased the criminals, he leapt across rooftops.

He took the concussions, the blood, the bomb strapped across his chest.

He got lucky, many a time. His wings should have melted long ago. But each and every day found him soaring closer and closer to the sun. Taking more and more risks. Taking longer and longer to recover from the wounds that struck him, emotionally and physically.

He knew he would be remembered as the foolish man who had been warned many a time. Who had thrown caution to the wind, spread his wings and soared. Continued soaring even when he had felt his wings began to melt. Who'd opened his arms once he lost all ability to keep himself in flight, and began the descent to his destruction.

When his time came, he would not say he'd failed. That his friendship with Sherlock Holmes had finally caused his downfall.

He would simply have been someone who lived a life others were afraid to lead, and had taken the consequences as they came.

He would be the man who had done his utmost to keep up with greatness. And when he reached his limit, unable to follow Sherlock any further, he would accept it and fall with grace.

He would not be failing as he fell. He would simply be coming to the end of his triumph.

Khatum