This next chapter is set two days before Watson's last diary entry. I would advise readers to read chapters 7-10 again before reading this if you have forgotten what has been happening- this will make the placement of the events in this chapter easier for you to picture (I hope). This follows Holmes's thoughts and actions on the 13th and 14th of December 1884. In regard to Holmes's mother in the previous chapter, we can assume that she killed herself as a result of post-natal depression.

The poem I have used in this chapter is a sonnet by Gerard Manley Hopkins, a deeply fascinating gentleman. In brief, Hopkins was a Jesuit priest, a poet and a deeply troubled homosexual. Hopkins's father hated homosexuality with a passion and, as I'm sure you're aware, Victorian society was not exactly approving of it. Unsurprisingly, Hopkins fell into a deep depression, the strain of which led to his untimely death. This poem was written when he was in one of these dark states of being and its convoluted and complex style is indicative of his torment when writing it.

This story, as promised, is NOT slash (although if you wish to read slash into it, go ahead). This may make my choice of poem seem a bit odd- it is, after all, about Hopkins's feelings of love towards a man with whom he cannot be and how accursed he feels because he cannot prevent them. However, I thought that it would fit in nicely here because , with Holmes's past experiences of love and loss, ANY feelings of love for another being, no matter how innocent, would make him feel dreadful as all the people he has loved in the past have hurt him terribly. If you want to flame someone for having Sherlock Holmes feel love for John Watson then I suggest you flame Conan Doyle 'cos he started it.

I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day.

Sherlock Holmes was not a man unused to melancholy and yet of late... Of late there was something additional, something that even the great Sherlock Holmes could not define clearly. This inability to articulate his exact humour was almost more painful to him than the feelings themselves. It was as though his mind were dissolving into a tempestuous gyre from which there could be no escape... and what then? If the 'mind without a heart' lost its mind... what then?

Except he did have a heart; a heart hardened by time and cruel experience but a heart nonetheless. As he sat there on the cold bench, with the sun rising in sickly shades behind clouds of ominous grey, a shiver ran through him that had little to do with the temperature although it was bitterly cold. There was a strong gust of wind and the clouds moved on their menacing way; the patch of tremulous light kindled for a moment in defiance before surrendering completely to their gloomy majesty.

What hours, O what black hours we have spent

This night! What sights you, heart, saw; ways you went!

Such pathetic fallacy only served to darken Holmes's mood further. He had much to brood over and he did so, painfully, even as his limbs grew numb from cold. The previous evening sprung to his mind vividly. Watson had entered their living room after his surgery to find him curled up in his chair gazing morosely into the dying embers of the fire, a threadbare blanket thrown haphazardly about his shoulders. He knew that he must have looked a sight; he had slept little in the past weeks, tormented as he was by nightmares, and he had eaten less, still, he couldn't bring himself to care.

Watson said nothing at first, merely placed his medical bag down before stoking the fire and tucking the blanket more securely around the thin shoulders of the man in front of him. "This cannot go on, Holmes." Holmes attempted a glare but it was half hearted at best "let it go, Watson"; what was worse was that he knew his companion was right. The doctor threw his hands up in exhausted exasperation. Holmes noticed that his eyes were red from lack of sleep and yet he never complained, always reassuring after one of those terrible dreams, always by his side.

He felt a stab of guilt and must have winced visibly for within moments Watson was crouching in front of him, worry etched in lines across his expressive face. When he spoke his voice was sad and soft. his hands had somehow found their ways to Holmes knees, exerting pressure unconsciously as his whole being begged his friend's compliance. "My dear fellow, you know I cannot leave you to run yourself ragged without comment. As your doctor my professional conscience will not allow it and as your friend... I care about you Holmes."

Holmes fancied that he had seen an unnatural glistening in Watson's eyes just as his own vision had blurred but both men blinked and it was gone; the emotions, however, were harder to shake off. "I..." Holmes began, his voice strained with feeling and underuse. He trailed off, uncertain of how to continue: to return the statement would surely be too trite, over-sentimental and above all, obvious. Of course he cared about Watson; he was his colleague, his faithful Boswell. And yet he must say something... "I think someone is at the door."

Watson looked taken aback for a moment but managed to compose himself in time for Holmes's assertion to be proven correct. Mrs Hudson bustled in with a concerned frown fro Holmes and a message for Watson: "Miss Morstan is here for you, Doctor." As Holmes watched Watson's shoulders seemed to slump but he soon convinced himself that he had been imagining it as a second later Watson was as sturdy and upright as usual, assuring their landlady that he would be down presently.

Picking up his still-warm hat and coat, the doctor turned to the detective. "I shall be home as soon as the ballet has finished." He opened the door but hesitated on the threshold. There was clearly much he wished to say but he settled on what he considered the safest passage and implored "do try to get some rest." Grey eyes met blue and both men gave small, wry smiles, each knowing the task to be nigh on impossible "goodnight Holmes." With that, he left. The fire cracked and spat and something inside Holmes burned along with it. Something directed towards Mary Morstan. Something that made his skin crawl.

And more must, in yet longer light's delay.

Left alone with his thoughts once more, Holmes began to analyse his feelings for Watson's female companion and ponder what they meant. He was reluctant to consider the fact he might be jealous, although all evidence pointed in that direction; jealousy brought with it too many implications that he would rather not face. He was merely concerned that his friend had been overly hasty in forming his attachment to his former client. Yes, that's what it was, simple concern for a fellow man. Nothing more than that.

And yet the feeling of emptiness that had settled in his stomach when Watson had closed the door would overhaul any opinion that the emotions Holmes felt in connection with his friend were 'simple'. His hands clenched into fists as he attempted to rid his mind of thoughts of life without Watson; such things were too painful to contemplate and here was this... this woman... driving Watson away from him. Making him take her to the ballet, of all things.

Holmes froze. "Oh God..." he rasped to the flames. He, Sherlock Holmes, the man who had spent so many years trying to make himself impervious to the affections of another, the man who had built up barriers of steel to prevent anyone from hurting him again, had allowed himself to love. And now it was happening again, as it always did. Watson was leaving him just as his mother had, just as Matilda had, just as Mycroft had and he would be alone. Again.

Except that Watson wasn't leaving him. He would be moving out, true, but his sense of loyalty... of duty... was too strong to abandon Holmes completely. No, he would continue in his duties as colleague and biographer, even as Holmes's moods became unbearable, even when all he wanted to do was to leave Baker Street far behind, start a family and continue the practice of the medicinal art he loved. Watson would never leave Holmes, just as William Holmes would never leave his son; they were duty bound together.

Holmes let out a strangled cry. There was nothing else for it. He had to sever the bond before it was too late. For both of them.

With witness I speak this. But where I say

Hours I mean years, mean life. And my lament

Is cries countless, cries like dead letters sent

To dearest him that lives alas! away

At once the great and tortured mind began to formulate a plan. He could not remain in Baker Street, nor could Watson know of his destination, the temptation to find him would be too strong. For that same reason there was no way that he could simply disappear and not expect Watson to attempt to track him down. No, he must go somewhere where even dear Watson could not follow.

Moriarty was getting anxious, Holmes knew this. He knew that it wouldn't be long before an attempt against his person was made, perhaps by Moriarty himself. If he defeated the professor, he would stage his own death. As painful as it would be to deceive Watson it was better than the pain he would incur if... well, Holmes would see to it that it never reached that stage.

And if Moriarty won... Well, that was no great loss, to Holmes at least. Of course he would try to bring Moriarty down with him but he did not fear death. In many ways he welcomed it. An hour without Watson by his side was excruciating, let alone a lifetime. Unable to sleep yet unable to face Watson, he made his way to Hyde Park. And it was here, many hours later, that he now sat. The heavens opened and raindrops ran down his cheeks like tears. Or perhaps they were tears. He could not tell.

I am gall, I am heartburn. God's most deep decree

Bitter would have me taste: my taste was me;

Bones built in me, flesh filled, blood brimmed the curse.

Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours.

Losing track of time to thoughts of impending loss and ever-present self-loathing, Holmes did not notice that the streets of the city around him had begun to fill up. What he did notice, however, was a loud clattering of hooves accompanied by terrified screams. He jumped the fence, his body moving without him, until suddenly he was in the path of danger. There was a gasp, a crash and a cry of pain from a voice strangely familiar yet somehow far away.

It was many moments before Holmes's consciousness returned to him and he winced as his eyes fluttered open to behold a sea of blurry onlookers. "Try to stay still" someone said, their voice sounding like it was travelling through treacle. He couldn't have disobeyed, even if he had wanted to. Beads of rain and sweat fell from his tilted chin, forming a rosary on the exposed flesh below and, for the first time in many weeks, Sherlock Holmes gave a joyful, honest smile.

As his eyes drifted shut his last thought was that now, finally, he was free.

I see

The lost are like this, and their scourge to be

As I am mine, their sweating selves; but worse.

(Gerard Manley Hopkins)