The Wedding
Sep. 5th, 2005 01:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dreamcatcher284I've been working on updating my Shelock Holmes related stories, and this is the first of a series.
THE WEDDING
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"I fear that it may be the last investigation in which I shall have the chance of studying your methods. Miss Morstan has done me the honour to accept me as a husband in prospective."- John H. Watson (Sign of Four).
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
As I gaze idly down from the damp lawn at the summit of the hill in the courtyard, I observe the grand cathedral almost overflowing with onlookers and well wishers for the special ceremony. Although it is still early, the radiant sun is beaming its glorious and glowing face down upon the hillside, while its rays of liquid gold flow through the cracks of the cotton-like clouds as if it, too, wished to observe the upcoming events.
Sighing deeply, I descend from my point of lonely vigil and make my way slowly to the back of the church, being careful to avoid the steady stream of people still entering its grand beckoning entrance. It’s much quieter here, where the only people are those buried under six feet of soil, almost as though nature herself were paying respect to the dead. As I amble through the rows of graves, I glance idly at the names engraved upon the lichen and moss-encrusted stones in various stages of wear from the course of time. It’s strange, almost ironic, that this place—so full of moroseness and death—would be so closely linked to somewhere that is, at least for now, brimming with life and happiness. The living who claim to love their parted beloved taunt those lying beneath, reminding them of the joy they will never experience again.
The almost tangible tendrils of cheer emanating from within the basilica cannot brighten my spirits, for I cannot celebrate when I am going to lose so much. I am not usually a selfish person, but the thought of losing my truest and most cherished companion saddens me greatly.
It is true that Watson will probably be better off now with a wife of his own. He can finally live a life free from the burdens of constantly bustling around the darkest slums of London with an eccentric friend—a target of the most dangerous men in Europe—who didn’t even condescend to give him fair warning.
Yes, Mary Morstan will take care of him, and he will cherish her as the apple of his eye. The only question that remains is what will become of the lone detective, who can be put aside as easily as the training wheels from the bicycle of an experienced rider.
My fingers feel the smooth gold of the wedding band in my pocket. Watson assures me that nothing will change, of course—even made me his best man to prove just how important a friend I was to him. I however am not blinded by the naïveté and blind optimism my friend has always harboured for the future; I know that our friendship, which seems as solid and immovable as the tallest mountain, shall wear away—not unlike these ancient epitaphs—into the sands of time. At first, it may not seem significant; Watson will dine at Baker Street as a guest, not as a fellow lodger, but then the visits will become fewer and far between, until I find myself sitting alone by the fireside, gazing into my former companion’s empty chair.
No longer will I have my trusty Boswell ready to stand by my side as I play my game against all that is unjust in the world. After all, who will play with the children and sing them lullabies? I shudder quickly at the thought. Will he even remember me in ten years when he has retired from his medical practice, his children frolicking blissfully about him? Will I remember him?
I shake myself from my train of thoughts. It does not do to think like that and dwell on what ifs. At least he will be happy, even if this is the end.
With that thought firmly in my mind, I stepped across the threshold of the ornate cathedral, ready to face this parting of ways.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Of course, I don't exactly own Sherlock Holmes, so the standard disclaimer stands.
THE WEDDING
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"I fear that it may be the last investigation in which I shall have the chance of studying your methods. Miss Morstan has done me the honour to accept me as a husband in prospective."- John H. Watson (Sign of Four).
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
As I gaze idly down from the damp lawn at the summit of the hill in the courtyard, I observe the grand cathedral almost overflowing with onlookers and well wishers for the special ceremony. Although it is still early, the radiant sun is beaming its glorious and glowing face down upon the hillside, while its rays of liquid gold flow through the cracks of the cotton-like clouds as if it, too, wished to observe the upcoming events.
Sighing deeply, I descend from my point of lonely vigil and make my way slowly to the back of the church, being careful to avoid the steady stream of people still entering its grand beckoning entrance. It’s much quieter here, where the only people are those buried under six feet of soil, almost as though nature herself were paying respect to the dead. As I amble through the rows of graves, I glance idly at the names engraved upon the lichen and moss-encrusted stones in various stages of wear from the course of time. It’s strange, almost ironic, that this place—so full of moroseness and death—would be so closely linked to somewhere that is, at least for now, brimming with life and happiness. The living who claim to love their parted beloved taunt those lying beneath, reminding them of the joy they will never experience again.
The almost tangible tendrils of cheer emanating from within the basilica cannot brighten my spirits, for I cannot celebrate when I am going to lose so much. I am not usually a selfish person, but the thought of losing my truest and most cherished companion saddens me greatly.
It is true that Watson will probably be better off now with a wife of his own. He can finally live a life free from the burdens of constantly bustling around the darkest slums of London with an eccentric friend—a target of the most dangerous men in Europe—who didn’t even condescend to give him fair warning.
Yes, Mary Morstan will take care of him, and he will cherish her as the apple of his eye. The only question that remains is what will become of the lone detective, who can be put aside as easily as the training wheels from the bicycle of an experienced rider.
My fingers feel the smooth gold of the wedding band in my pocket. Watson assures me that nothing will change, of course—even made me his best man to prove just how important a friend I was to him. I however am not blinded by the naïveté and blind optimism my friend has always harboured for the future; I know that our friendship, which seems as solid and immovable as the tallest mountain, shall wear away—not unlike these ancient epitaphs—into the sands of time. At first, it may not seem significant; Watson will dine at Baker Street as a guest, not as a fellow lodger, but then the visits will become fewer and far between, until I find myself sitting alone by the fireside, gazing into my former companion’s empty chair.
No longer will I have my trusty Boswell ready to stand by my side as I play my game against all that is unjust in the world. After all, who will play with the children and sing them lullabies? I shudder quickly at the thought. Will he even remember me in ten years when he has retired from his medical practice, his children frolicking blissfully about him? Will I remember him?
I shake myself from my train of thoughts. It does not do to think like that and dwell on what ifs. At least he will be happy, even if this is the end.
With that thought firmly in my mind, I stepped across the threshold of the ornate cathedral, ready to face this parting of ways.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Of course, I don't exactly own Sherlock Holmes, so the standard disclaimer stands.
