Wow! It's been such a long time since I've been logged into this account at all, much less actually published something—so long I can't even tell whether my writing has gotten better or worse (and I don't want to think about it honestly, because I might not like the answer)! If any of my old friends are still around, I hope you're doing well. I miss these good ol' days and I want to reconnect with you just to catch up. 3
This story was inspired by a post I saw on Tumblr and the idea just wouldn't leave me alone, especially since I've been Holmes-obsessed for the past three weeks. You don't have to take it seriously at all, but this idea has really intrigued me ever since it struck me. Let me know what you think, please!

No Man

The air was silent and still and cool, as is often the way in such solemn venues. The bustling metropolitan afternoon could never hope to touch the land cut off by wrought iron gates; the vibrant London outside was unable to affect the desolate world within. It was its own realm, its own universe, and rightly so—for nowhere else did etched stones and sad statues seem to be sprouting from the earth and the trees themselves seem to be bowing with empathetic grief for stolen years.

It was certainly selfish to think so, with many tiny gravestones marked with white stargazer lilies and untouched toys, but the particular mourner clothed in black thought that the grave to which he went must represent the most significant stolen years of all.

A flash of guilt touched his mind for a moment as he thought of his conversation from the morning. His wife had been insisted that she join him whenever he needed to make this journey, and although he understood and appreciated the gesture, the words he must speak now were not ones that he felt should be privy to any third party. He had not lied outright to her about his intended destination, but he felt that implying he was going directly to his practice was just as misleading. Mary deserved better than that from him.

Then he felt another kind of guilt, because he was only trying to distract himself from where he was going, he knew. How duly unfair it was to deceive her, and then use her as a distraction from his pain.

It mattered very little anyway, because when that lone grey monument under the willow tree came into view, John Watson could think of nothing else.

He said nothing for a long while, simply staring down at the letters engraved upon the stonework.

SHERLOCK HOLMES
1854 - 1891

He thought rather selfishly that if it had been up to him, more would have been included; a name, unique though it was, and a simple date were hardly enough to portray the wonders that lay within those years. But such were the instructions left by Holmes to his brother Mycroft, and so he had not allowed himself to interfere with his friend's final wishes; that did not mean, however, that he would not boast about Sherlock Holmes with his pen. He had been writing already. Those wonderful stories would be told; he was the only one in the world who could tell them, and so it was his solemnest duty to do so.

That was not what he had come to say, however. Sherlock Holmes had known his biographer well enough to predict that the stories would go on; Watson need not remind him of that now.

"I have spoken to Mrs. Hudson. She says that she will not be renting out the rooms to any other tenant, and so your brother has elected to pay the rent due to her with your remaining assets. I trust you will not think her decision overly-sentimental or melodramatic, Holmes, for I believe she was simply used to the excitement you brought to the house and cannot yet tolerate a less rambunctious resident in your place. I know that may be hard for you to understand, but do try, for her sake."

This was not what he had come to say either, and perhaps it was an odd way to begin, but he had wondered for many months how to proceed with his admission and found the words were stuck in his mind, still too unsure to be voiced.

"I have not spoken to either Lestrade or Gregson since the memorial service, though I gather from the papers that Inspector Patterson has received much notoriety from his superiors over the closing of the case, and I would be willing to wager, as would you I think, that Lestrade and Gregson are rather put out over the fact, having introduced you to Patterson to begin with. They'll be quite lost without you, you know. They'll find their way, I have no doubt, as must we all, but your absence from Baker Street will leave them with quite a gap in resources. I am not sure if you realize how great a gap you really have left, Holmes."

Again, this was not his reason for visiting alone, but he felt that it needed saying anyway, even if he had silently, mournfully whispered it in his heart countless times in the last week.

"There is one thing I must tell you now, Holmes, so please hear me out."

And here it was at last; courage finally had won out, and the words would come boldly now. He gripped his hat in both fists and tried to imagine those keen, sharp silver eyes giving him their undivided attention.

"I have been meaning for many months to tell you, but I feared your reaction and did not wish to alarm or disturb you. Now that I have contemplated, I see how foolish such a fear was—you were far too wise and too brave to fall victim to such instinctive reactions as might trouble the rest of us, and so I see now that I should have done better and told you right away. For keeping this from you, I can only apologize most sincerely, my dear fellow."

At that, he stopped, one corner of his mustache quirking up in helpless amusement at his own automatic term of endearment. The next instant, the hilarity left him and his blue eyes grew dull with sadness once again.

"I shall wish," he continued, more quietly than before, "until my dying day that I had had the courage enough to tell you, but I can only set it to rights now and hope that my confession will somehow make up for my error."

He readjusted his grip on the rim of his bowler, at the same time his gaze darted around himself just to make doubly certain that no one was within hearing distance; satisfied that no one was even in sight, he took a deep breath and let it out like a sigh, and then continued.

"I knew of your secret, Holmes. You mustn't think me a busybody," he was quick to add, face flushing with embarrassment, "for it was completely by accident that I discovered it. It was on the ship bound for Belgium—do you remember it? The kidnapping case from almost a year ago? I did something most impolite, Holmes, and I beg your pardon although I do not think you'll hold it against me, because when you did not answer my knocking on your door, I unlocked it myself with the spare key you had given me just for such a purpose."

He could remember every moment of that night, from the gentle rocking of the ship to the golden glow of the lamps to the pattern of the carpet in Holmes' stateroom. The scent of the sea had pervaded every corner, but the smell of lilac soap had filled his nostrils as he'd made his way toward the bathroom, where he could hear Holmes' movements while he'd dressed. He had planned to ask him if he had any cufflinks that might match his dinner attire better than those he had brought.

"I had such a silly question to ask you, really," Watson said with a rueful smile, but at least his hands had stopped wringing the rim of his hat. "It feels so ridiculous to be admitting it was the cause of my discovering your closest-guarded secret, but as you have expressed, oftentimes the most trivial acts lead to the most serious consequences. Please do not be angry with me, my dear friend. I had no intention of invading your privacy in such a way."

It was true, for he had no way to expect that the door of the bathroom might be open just a sliver, and that Holmes would have been standing at just the right position to be visible.

"I only stayed long enough to glimpse you through the bathroom door, and once I realized what I had seen, I left immediately. You must know that it was not out of cowardice or shame, but that I had no intention of humiliating you in that moment."

It had taken him all of five seconds to realize what he actually was seeing, in fact. The physician in him had categorized the facts before his brain could catch up with them, and then he had still had to assure himself that there was no other possible explanation.

But no, the thin white fabric wound tightly, but not uncomfortably, around his friend's shirtless chest could mean only one thing. All in an instant, the delicate hands, strident voice, graceful bone structure, and sometimes prim poise had meant something entirely different, and the remarks his friend had always made about women, rather than ignorant and discourteous, had become humorously self-deprecating. That odd, indefinable instinct he had always felt around his friend, that admitted attraction he'd shyly felt from the very beginning, had struck him like morning's first light as finally making sense. Watson had always known there was something strangely bewitching about Sherlock Holmes, which caused him to write such detailed descriptions of his subject, but he had always assumed his noticing was a simple, objective, practical side effect of friend's admiration and biographer's imagination. In that moment, all had become clear to him.

He had made it around the corner of the hall before Holmes had ever exited the bathroom, but when they had met for dinner, he had still felt a pang of apprehension that somehow his friend had known he'd been there, spying upon his—her—secret.

But midway through the dinner, Watson felt assured that Holmes had no knowledge of his earlier presence in his—her—rooms; it had seemed fate had spared them both from the embarrassment that would have entailed, or so Watson had thought at the time.

"I understand why you chose them, so you need not worry about explaining your actions to me."

The saddest of smiles accompanied that remark, as he looked down upon the eternally silent marble.

"You have taught me so much, Holmes, more than I ever expected to learn, probably more than you intended to teach. I have never thought of myself as a naive man when it comes to the needs and struggles of others, but I will admit that my knowledge of your secret shed light anew in my mind. That you, of all people, felt the need to mask your identity in this way so that you might be taken seriously as a detective—I will admit that it stunned me. I have no doubt that you thought it necessary, and so it must have been, and yet it shames me that I would have assumed our modern society was more impartial than that. For that, I apologize in the name of all the likeminded male citizens of our land."

The air around him seemed very forgiving suddenly, and he could almost—almost—see the wry, careless smile as a flare of match-sparks would reflect gold in silver eyes.

"I am afraid I cannot accept your apology, Watson, for the very simple reason that it is unnecessary from the start," would come the self-certain but kind reply, as the pipe was lit and the match tossed into the fireplace. "You are hardly responsible for any little follies of society; were it up to you, I have upmost confidence that you would set to rights all our world's little blunders."

Holmes would be right, of course, for if it were up to him, he most certainly would.

"I say all of this now because you must know, Holmes, you simply must know, that there was at least one man in England who knew and did not let it change his opinion. Judge for yourself, my friend—did I ever treat you differently after that voyage, that you can recall? I would like to believe I did not, and if I did, I can assure you it was by no means deliberate. Man or woman—pardon, what I mean is, gentleman or lady, for you would of course be worthy of one or the other title—it makes absolutely no difference to me. I would have followed you anywhere you bade me."

At this, he stopped, his voice breaking unexpectedly. . .although perhaps not so unexpectedly. He did not allow the fresh, hot tears at the back of his throat to halt his continuing, but spoke through them with no regard for how his words shook and his vision blurred. There was, after all, no one to see or hear.

"Anywhere, Holmes—I thought surely you knew that. Surely, after these many years together, you would have thought better of facing your terrible fate alone. Surely you would have had me stay, rather than letting me be led awry by that treacherous message. I had the revolver. I could have helped you defend against that wretched villain. We could have both come home, my dear friend, rather than me alone while you made your final sacrifice—and I know it was for my sake. Do not think that makes it any easier, for it does not; knowing that you let me walk away from you so as to preserve my life is the heaviest burden you have ever placed on me. It was undoubtedly the most heroic act I have ever witnessed, but that does not make it any less painful to say goodbye to you."

This was as far as he could manage, and the last two words were barely audible, for he choked on goodbye. Struggling to control the tears that now fell silently, he clenched his jaw so tightly it hurt and covered his grief-dimmed blue eyes with one hand. It was several minutes of eerie, fogbound silence all around before he could speak again.

"I have known many great men," he said at last, almost a sigh, as his hand fell and his shoulders straightened against any further grief. "I fought alongside them, and I have seen courage, wisdom, and goodness beyond what is obligatory. Yet in my mind, not one of them could ever compare to you. No man in this world could even try. That is all I wish you to know, my dear Holmes. I hope that you did."

With this final whisper, he did not look again at the gravestone. Instead he replaced his bowler upon his head, took his walking stick from the crook of his arm, and went slowly back the way he had come.

The End

I actually have a couple more ideas to continue, which I might write and publish sometime if anyone might be interested. I hope you all have a wonderful day/night! Thank you for reading!