My Full Confession

Just Like Old Times

"It was, oh still the winter months I presume. Yes, I do remember there being snow around the grounds, yet it was warming too much for my liking. I knew that when the warmth came spring was on its way, and in the spring I was supposed to be married, chained to this hellish creature for life. Now while I had obviously chosen such a path, and while this marriage would ensure my escape from this town, there was still a little part of me that hoped it would all fall apart. In the back of my head I continually asked myself what was the price of my college education if I do use Irene's money to get it. Well not just the monetary value of course, but along with my money I would have sacrificed my entire life of freedom. Surely a degree was not worth that? And yet I hadn't been thinking so rationally when I had proposed, and now I was waiting. Waiting for what, I did not know, just waiting for something that might give me an excuse to leave her. I wanted her to do something heinous; I wanted a reason to back away without making a big fuss about my morals. As Victor had said, men with secrets needed wives to hide them, and while I didn't yet consider myself distinctly secretive, I did know at least that suspicion would be roused either way, should I back out without proper reason. I was a very conflicted man in those days, wrestling not only with I thought I had to do, but also with what society expected from me. Both of these conflicted of course, with what I wanted to do, and what I wanted to amount to. I knew I had potential, not just academically but romantically, and it was difficult to look upon myself in the mirror and see such qualities, see such beautiful gifts and know they were going to be wasted. I thought myself the most beautiful mortal, and I thought that no woman properly deserved me, least of all my horrible fiancé. She was beautiful to the eyes, foul to the heart, and I could not hardly imagine myself feeling happy for one moment in my life while she was attached to me by the ring finger. My life seemed bleak,and hopeless to the point where it was all I could manage to do but sit on my bed and hang my head miserably. I was at a loss, and a barren desert was what awaited me after the springtime. After the wedding, there would be no point in a smile. I would get an education, but never would my heart be satisfied. Never would I know the capabilities of love, if it be stifled so soon by a woman who didn't deserve it. It was around five o'clock when I dared to finally get to my feet, and go downstairs to investigate dinner options. Since our mother was no longer around, our meals were entirely of our own creation. There was no union between the family anymore, no more cooperation. No one would lift a finger to help another, lest it be around the farm. The cooking, cleaning, and everything else completely domestic was each man's singular burden, and because of that a great many days we were wallowing in filth with empty stomachs. Men were a different bread of disgusting, or at least alcoholic men were. My father had let the house diminish into an almost pitiful state; it was hardly recognizable without my mother's touch. Dust accumulated everywhere, mud was stomped into the carpets, in some areas the ceilings were sagging, in others rodents had overtaken. My bedroom was nearly spotless, as was Mycroft's, yet every place my father touched filth seemed to pile up, to the point where I dared not roam around too much. He was a pitiful creature, and I prayed every night that he rid us of his presence once and for all. Thankfully my brother and I both had grown responsible enough to keep ourselves out of trouble, for the only thing worse than my father's cleanliness was his temper. If we stepped one toe out of line (a line which was drawn in certain places, depending on how many bottles he was surrounded by) we were beaten nearly senseless. Needless to say, we learned our place rather quickly, and feared him at an entirely new level. I did not want to get beaten, especially since it might ruin my complexion. A broken nose would certainly destroy all possibilities for being flawless, for a beautiful face looked pitiful if the nose was on the wrong way. I dared not cross him, for many reasons, and that was why I tiptoed down the stairs that evening, careful to make sure I didn't wake him from whatever slumber he had fallen into. I heard conversation, something which was so foreign to me in this house that I almost convinced myself it was the radio. Yet no, the radio was in the living room, and the conversation was loud enough so as to only be coming from the kitchen. The deep voice of my father was involved, and another voice, deep yet...yet strangely familiar. I looked back up the stairs to make sure my brother wasn't following, before very quietly continuing my decent. For good measure I straightened my jacket around my shoulders, and floated down the steps as elegantly as I could manage. I was not used to guests, and of course I wanted to make a good impression. The stranger was standing with his back to me, a short yet bulky man in a plaid shirt. My father was standing near the door, all of his girth being leaned against the counter, and yet he obviously tried to make himself look presentable. He was dressed, and that seemed to be enough for him. I was able to catch a short snippet of the conversation, something about the house across the fields and the tenants who lived there, before it was cut short. My father heaved a great sigh, as if my presence was at the utmost inconvenience to him.
"William, what do you want?" he growled, looking past the stranger's shoulder towards me with a grimace on his face that made his stubbly wrinkles sag disgustingly around his face. I tried to think of a response, one that would not sound too confrontational, yet was cut short just as soon as the stranger turned around. Oh I should've known, I should've known there was a reason something about the back of his head excited me. For it wasn't a stranger at all...or rather he hadn't been a stranger when I last saw him. Just because he had grown taller didn't mean that I knew him any less...It was then that my rapid heartbeat fell to a stop, and I clutched onto the banister of the staircase so as to make sure I didn't stumble off the last stair and make a fool out of myself. Yet no matter how hard I tried, my knees began to shake, and I had a surprisingly overwhelming urge to just burst into tears. My eyes couldn't process, my heart couldn't comprehend...and yet a voice was chanting in the back of my head, a single word which appeared on my lips without my own consent...
"John." I whispered, forming that name which I hadn't spoken in eleven years. He smiled, a gorgeous sight for tired eyes, a form of happiness that I had not seen or felt for so long. I almost didn't know how to process a positive emotion, for I had not felt one in as long as I could remember. It was unlike anything I recognized, the feeling of sunshine, the feeling of joy. He had grown taller, still not nearly as tall as I but still considerably so since the last I saw him. His scrawny limbs had turned to muscle, and his skin had tanned from the sun. He must have grown to be a farmer, there was no other way to make sense of his sudden transformation, and yet as opposed to most laborers I knew, he still looked incomprehensibly beautiful. In fact, he looked so mature, and so rugged, that I had a hard time recognizing him as the boy I once knew. Obviously the feeling was mutual, for he stepped back a bit in surprise, looking me over and hooking his thumbs into his belt loops, giving a whistle of surprise before a smile broke back onto his face.
"You've grown." Was all he said, making my heart beat so quickly my head began to grow foggy.
"William, go back upstairs. We're talking business." My father growled, not looking too amused at my interrupting his conversation.
"I uh...yes alright." I whispered, staring at the boy who stood before me for a moment longer, feeling my jaw having dropped a long while ago. I must have looked rather stood, standing and gawking like an idiot, and yet I could think of nothing better to do, no better alternative for taking in every moment of this reunion.
"It's quite alright if he stays, Sir. He was as much a part of my childhood as that house was." John assured finally.
"He knows nothing of farming, nor of business. He could be nothing but a distraction, William, shoo!" Mr. Holmes growled, and so it was my only choice but to obey his orders. No matter how much John fought for me to stay, I was much too afraid of my father to cooperate. And so I shot one last look at my old friend, still not entirely sure if he was real or not, before turning my back and racing as fast I could up the steps, nearly shaking with shock of it all. I went first to my brother's room, knocking on the door rapidly and finding no answer. Well of course Mycroft would still be in the barn, he was usually secluded in with the cows until darkness fell. I always wondered what he did in there, for there was not nearly enough work to be done that would result in twelve hours of work a day. Perhaps he had textbooks, or perhaps he merely fell asleep on the hay. Anything to avoid my father's presence was a good idea, and I really couldn't blame him for his absence from the house. Nonetheless I found myself alone, alone at least with the shock of who was downstairs. It couldn't possibly be John, and yet it was. It was undeniably him! He had appeared into my life once again, materializing so as to do what? He was being planted right at my feet, right again so as to tempt me off of the path I had begun to follow. His reappearance was wondrously convenient, yet at the same time miserably disruptive. For I had just about convinced myself to sacrifice everything for money, and now here he was, reminding me again that there were some things that were worth more than dollars. Somethings that were more important than even livelihood, and education. He was here to remind me of what a fool I had grown to be, just in time to prevent nothing at all. He had come too late to interrupt me, yet just in time to make all of my bad decisions weigh even heavier on top of my heart. For the ring was already on that woman's finger, and another one was being made as I stood. The wedding could not be called off, and yet John could not be forced to leave. My worlds were colliding, the good and the bad...the worst of it was of course that they could not overlap. I must follow one, and not the other, no matter how much my heart was tugging. I was trapped, was I not, between an unstoppable force and an immovable object. Or rather, was I that immovable object in the end? I couldn't go back to my room; I couldn't isolate myself and miss his departure. I couldn't let him slip away, for what if this was my only chance? What if he was here for just a day, and had decided that my father was the one he would visit instead of me? On another thought, what was he even doing in my kitchen, if not here for me? What sort of business were they discussing? My curiosity overwhelmed my skittishness, and with my trembling legs I went to sit on the stairs, far enough so that they would not be able to see me, yet close enough to hear very faintly the conversation that was being had in the kitchen. I caught that beautiful voice midsentence, that voice which had been narrating my thoughts since last I heard it, those eleven years prior...
"...coming up, and come the summer you'll need all the help you can get. I'll require minimal wages, just a place to sleep and enough to eat." He was saying.
"The house is empty for now; I have been looking for occupants as of late. But there is hardly any winter work to be done; I couldn't pay you until you made yourself useful." My father grunted in return.
"I'm just looking for a place to stay, in fact Sir, I could pay you rent until my service is of use." John offered.
"Yes, I suppose that would work. But what money would you be using?" he asked in suspicious reply.
"The inheritance from my mother's will." John said quietly, his voice slackening in some remorse.
"Stolen money, then?" my father presumed.
"She returned every penny, once she knew where it came from. This was earned, Sir." John defended. I was so happy to hear him fighting the man; no one had confronted my father on anything for six years, ever since my mother had died. I was filled with so many emotions that I could hardly think of what to feel, was it relief, or excitement, or despair? The promise of John living on our lands, being our farm hand? Was this good or bad? Could the past be recaptured, after all of those years apart? Or would there just be awkwardness between us, perhaps awkwardness that had come along with maturity? I still remembered that last night we spent together, rolled in each other's arms, when he kissed me on the forehead. Surely he would be ashamed of such a memory, if he even recollected it at all? There were barriers now that we as adults could not cross, and the memories of such youthful carelessness surely would provide us some sort of regret. Nothing could be as blissful as our childhood, yet perhaps we could become acquaintances once more. Perhaps we could attempt to retie the cord, knot by knot, until finally we were linked together again. Their conversation continued on with boring talk of money and of seeds. I was mesmerized by his voice, that was why I lingered, for I still couldn't process the fact that it was him, it was my John, standing again in the kitchen. What has he been doing for eleven years, and why has he chosen now to return? What was he coming back for; certainly there was work to be done all over the country? Why did he decide that this farm would be the one he came to? Was it for his old house, for his father, for his childhood memories? Was it for me? It had been so long that I couldn't assume he even remembered me, perhaps I had been blended in with all of his memories, until I was just a mere blot of color in his mind, something that he occasionally remembered when memories surfaced at random. I could hardly have expected to mean anything to him, at least not anymore. And yet here he was again, I had the chance to redeem myself! I had the chance to meet him again, to know him again, to...to own him again. My John Watson, returned to me. As soon as the conversation died away I decided that it might be safe to at least venture to the middle of the staircase, so as to see if the coast was clear. And so I got to my feet, lingering down the stairs just enough so that I could hear if there were any footsteps on the linoleum...
"I see your feet." My father growled, to which I scampered back upstairs once more. "Oh come down then, if you must!" he added, and with that I heard his heavy lumbering as he went to retake his place on the sofa. On that command I fled down the stairs, letting gravity take me as I flew to the kitchen, so as to get one more glance upon John, so as to make sure he was still there, still real. Just as soon as I reached the kitchen I found him standing where he had been last, this time looking at me with something of a casual face. There was a smile, though. A hint of one.
"What are you doing here?" I managed finally, the first question which had popped into my mind, the first thing I could say so as to break this awkward silence.
"I've come to work. Ever since I was a kid, I dreamed of working on my father's fields. That dream never went away." John admitted with a shrug. He stepped towards me, holding out a hand to shake. I trembled at the idea of touching him, looking towards my father to see that he was staring right at me. I knew of course that there was only one thing I could do, and so I took his hand within my own. His skin was much rougher than I remembered it, with callouses having built up on his skin. Yet they were still delicate, and his hand fit so perfectly within my own that I had to imagine it was simply made to be. We were constructed for each other, that much we had known. And so very carefully we shook hands, our eyes daring to meet each other's for a moment before finally he pulled his hand away.
"You look good." I muttered, to which I could only wince at my own awkwardness, and fall into the wall so as to make sure I was leaning on something. It was much too difficult for me to stand now, on my own. My father grunted from where he sat on the couch, obviously not impressed with my social skills.
"As do you. I almost didn't recognize you." John admitted with something of a chuckle.
"It's been a while." I said rather obviously. "We've changed."
"In some ways, perhaps. Other ways are destined to stay the same." John assured me with a shrug.
"Your smile hasn't changed." I offered, making him chuckle a bit in flattery. I felt my face heat up in something of shame, yet he didn't seem bothered by it. In fact, his smile only widened.
"I'm glad to hear it. Obviously your social skills have also remained constant." John decided. I tried to contain my laughter, for I knew my father wouldn't be too thrilled to see me actually happy, and yet it was all I could do but let a little giggle escape. It was so foreign! I felt that I hadn't laughed since John had left; there hadn't been a single smile on my face this entire time! Oh how wonderfully he could change things, how rapidly he could bring light back into my life!
"It's good to see you." John said again, looking as if he wanted to step forward, but knew better than to make any more moves of intimacy. We had an audience, that was terribly clear.
"It's good to see you too." I agreed in a breath.
"You can move in tomorrow, Watson. As of now, please leave my family in peace." My father called from the other room, obviously growing tired of watching the two of us stare into each other's eyes. I almost said something in defense; oh I almost raised my voice against that horrible man! And yet I hesitated, before turning back to John a bit helplessly.
"You'll live here again?" I clarified.
"Just like old times." He agreed, turning back towards the coat rack and plucking his own from the hook. "We can start anew, Sherlock. We can get to know each other again."
"You'll find I'm much the same." I warned.
"I don't doubt it. In fact, I'm rather hoping for it." John assured, zipping his jacket up and fitting a small wool hat over his head. "Until tomorrow."
"Until then." I agreed in a breath. I could hardly watch him leave, for I was too afraid that his retreating back might never return. And so, before I could watch him go, I fled up the stairs once more, retreating now to my bedroom to process this all, and to allow my throbbing heart to calm itself in my chest.