Chapter one – Peeking Through The Golden Gates
The Doctor was sitting in his favorite armchair by the fire, dozing with a tired but peaceful expression across his benevolent features. He looked so beautiful, angelic almost. With the fire so close to his already golden skin, it created a wonderful glowing aura around his frighteningly handsome body and deep brown locks. Although to me he will always be divine no matter the setting. I myself was hovering by the doorway like some sort of malicious vampire, silent and unmoving. I had just returned home, I was gruesomely tired but at that moment I was satisfied with just staring at the bliss before me, like a condemned soul gazing longingly at the golden gates of paradise. That was what it felt like, what it always felt like, to be in same room as Dr. John Watson. I knew he would forever be out of my reach however; the attributes I love him fervently for, were the ones that made it impossible for me to have him. My soul is not beautiful like his. I do not deserve him; I am clever enough to know that much.
I moved from the doorway and into the sitting room, still quiet in an attempt not to wake its sleeping occupant.
But when I stopped and stood in front of him, he awoke; the war had made him almost as light a sleeper as I am. He looked at me with hazy blue eyes; they were so bright that I am positive that if he wanted to, Watson could banish the night from the world just by letting it bask in the glow of those glorious cerulean orbs. His soul is shining through his eyes, which is why they are so radiant.
I would possibly write an ode about those eyes, if I was not so sure I would never be able to do them justice. Words can only say so much after all.
"My apologies for waking you Watson, but sleeping in that position will surely make your muscles ache in the morning," I said in my usual nonchalant manner, voice calm and jovial.
Watson has credited me to be a fine actor. If only he knew how much practice I get on a daily basis, he might not be so eager to congratulate me.
The Doctor stretched his limbs and stifled a yawn. I sat down in the armchair next to him. To keep myself from staring at him –a pastime I would gladly spend eternity refining- I picked up a cigarette from the table and looked around for a matchbox to light it with.
Watson stirred momentarily, pulled his own matchbox from his waistcoat pocket and handed it to me. When I reached out for it, our fingers met briefly and a shiver ran down my spine and caused tingling goose bumps to creep over my skin. It is a constant surprise to me how something as trivial as a minute touch or a tiny smile from The Doctor can send my heart racing to the point that I actually fear for my health. It is a miracle of miracles that he does not detect my heartbeat galloping away when we are sitting so close together.
I thanked him and lit my cigarette, congratulating myself for being able to keep my hands steady while doing so.
In moments like these, I cannot make a distinction between Heaven and Hell. It is the most bittersweet feeling in the world; having the one person you love more than life itself beside you, but not actually having him. We sat there in silence, like so many times before.
I did not say anything. The words I truly wanted to speak I have banished from my tongue forever and therefore all other subjects often seem to be meaningless.
Watson yawned again after some minutes, not bothering to stifle it this time; it was well past midnight after all.
"I think I'll hop off to bed, Holmes. Do you have any plans for tomorrow?"
I smiled thinly, that was Watson's way of asking me if I was to wake him up at dawn and drag him out to the country in pursuit of some ghastly villain. It has happened before and, I hope, it will happen again. The man looks absolutely adorable when he is awakened abruptly. His hair would be tousled; his moustache magnificently scruffy and his expression when he is annoyed but too tired to argue with me is one of those observations of a fact that can make me smile like an infatuated barmaid just by thinking about it. An alarming number of things involving the doctor have that effect on me I might add. But this night he was looking awfully tired and I was not currently employed by a client so I answered him truthfully.
"No, nothing of importance my dear fellow. I might begin to sort out those documents about the McLaggan gang but if I know myself, and I am confident that I do, I am inclined to doubt it."
This jovial remark earned me an amused chuckle and for a moment I was the happiest man in London.
He smiled tiredly and put his hands on his upper thighs. The urge to lay my own hands above them was stubbornly ignored, as always. Then he stood up, his frame wracked with exhaustion and he flinched when he put his weight on his injured leg. But of course he would never in his life even think of complaining.
I bid him goodnight, staying in my armchair while watching him going up the stairs to his bedroom.
What wouldn't I give to be able to follow him up those stairs?
Again I feel the restrictions that come with words.
The longing. The intense, heartbreaking, atrocious longing! I had to dig my nails into the fabric of my chair to stop myself from moaning in despair of it all.
I want him! I want him so much I can't even begin to describe the marvelous, amazing and at the same time excruciating emotions that flow through me every time he enters my view. Or every time he leaves it for that matter.
But he will never be mine. He will always be the angel soaring above and I will always be the condemned soul looking up at him from my place in the boat traveling down the river Styx.
John Watson is a beautiful human being; he is the opposite of me. The most prominent difference is that he is not a depraved abomination to society. He also cares immensely for everyone, even absolute strangers. I remember once we walked together through the streets of London, it was winter and the cold was extraordinarily biting that evening.
When we walked through Hyde Park he gave his coat away to a young beggar girl, the one with the big pockets and comfortable collar, his favorite coat. Just like that, as if it was the most customary thing to do in the world. As if he did not know how rare and precious that sort of kindness is. The girl took the coat, too stunned for words. At least she was a person who recognized pure hearted people when she saw them. That girl would most likely have died that winter if it hadn't been for Dr. John Watson and still he did not even require a thank you from the girl. It boggles the mind how such a gentle soul ever survived a war, illness, the death of a brother and then living with me. One of the few mysteries I fear I will never solve.
I see beggars and less fortunate people than myself on the streets every day but I accept that I cannot help them all and this does not pain me in the least.
But it pains Watson.
I am not saying he is naive, he knows as well as I do that he cannot help them all, that he cannot ease everyone's pain.
But he wants to. He wants to help them with his whole being and sometimes he himself hurts because he knows he cannot do this. I have seen it myself, when he comes home completely devastated after failing to help someone, a patient or a friend or just a stranger, it doesn't matter. His grievous expression is always the same. And yet, despite this pain he keeps doing it, he keeps his heart open for people to rip and thrash it however they please as long as he can at least help some.
I tell you, God must have misplaced one of his most precious angels.
It is ironic, I find, that I use theological analogies when I try to explain the feelings I experience in the vicinity of my fellow lodger, since according to Church of England I should not be permitted to be alive. I have always been the way I am, a monstrosity in the eyes of the public as it were. I am breaking the law just by breathing; it is quite a difficult fact to deal with.
If I could change what I am, I would, I have tried on many occasions. All failed endeavors however. It is not easily explained; how it feels living with the knowledge that if you tried to be completely honest with someone you might end up in a jail cell, or worse.
Always hiding, always lying. It is as natural to me as honesty is to The Doctor.
I sat there by the fire, bothering to add fuel to it. When the night finally absorbed our sitting room I found myself dozing off. It had been a long day after all and as so many times before, I hadn't noticed how truly tired I had become. I felt cold but did not reach for a blanket.
I knew that only one thing could warm my icy bones and that was the one thing I would always refuse myself. I will never contaminate Watson; I will not ruin this pure being even if it will ruin me in the process.
Sometimes I can get angry with him, making me live in both Heaven and Hell at the same time and for being so damn flawless.
But then I remember the feeling I get when he laughs at one of my arrogant comments. When he runs his hand through his hair after a tiring day, making it stick up in odd places. Or when his already brilliant eyes light up with curiosity at one of my deductions and when his lips curl in amusement when I explain them to him.
It is not Heaven, but it is as close as I will ever get to it.