My Full Confession

Let Us Start At The Beginning

"It's nice to finally meet you, Mr. Watson." Greg said a bit awkwardly.
"We've talked before." Mr. Watson said slowly, hobbling over to his chair and settling himself in. He set his cane next to the chair, relaxing his old bones into the familiar crevices and going immediately to his pipe. For a moment he coughed, alluding to some sort of poor health, before he filed the thing with tobacco and unearthed a box of matches. Certainly the smoking wasn't helping any medical condition he was ailed with.
"Well, those were usually one way conversations." Greg corrected.
"On behalf of your rambunctious offspring." Mr. Watson muttered, puffing the first couple of breaths through his pipe and filling the room with foul smelling smoke. Nevertheless, he swung his pipe at the armchair across from him, as if insisting that Greg take a seat. It was an equally old chair, one that appeared to have never been sat in before. However as soon as Greg sat down he felt himself sink lower than expected, the springs were shifting now, and adjusting to the burden of weight that they had long since forgotten. And so there had been an occupant to this chair, long enough ago that it had been unused for a long while.
"Do you have any children, Mr. Watson?" Greg wondered.
"No." he said simply. Greg nodded, that was what he had expected.
"A wife?" Greg asked again, this time a bit more hesitantly.
"No." Mr. Watson said again, although even as he sat smoking Greg noticed the glint of a ring on his finger. So she must've died...perhaps talking about her was painful for the poor man. Greg decided not to correct him on his own life, and so he allowed himself to ease into the chair just a bit more, and focus again on his peculiar host. The man's eyes sparkled with intelligence, and his long thin limbs hung very loosely at his sides, as if he hadn't the muscle mass anymore to control them. He didn't wear glasses and yet he squinted and strained to focus on things close to his eyes, presumably he had neglected his readers, that or he was embarrassed to wear them in front of other people. He wore a nicely fitted black jacket, underneath poked what looked like a shirt of dark purple, and his shoes sparkled as if they had just been shined. Obviously he had dressed his best for company.
"Would you like tea?" the man wondered.
"I'm alright, thank you." Greg murmured. Mr. Watson nodded, blowing a great big billow of smoke again.
"There's a notebook next to you on the table there, I would like you to write down what I am about to tell you." Mr. Watson instructed. Greg raised his eyebrows cautiously, yet noticed as promised the notebook and a small ballpoint pen.
"Alright then, will it be long?" Greg asked apprehensively.
"If all goes well, this will not be your only visit. I will talk slowly; or rather I will talk as I can. Words have been coming much more slowly than before, I always used to talk so quickly that John could never...well never mind that." Mr. Watson hesitated, closing his eyes for a moment as if he could not betray himself with such an introduction. "You are still a detective, are you not?" he asked finally.
"Yes I am." Greg agreed, wondering now just what he had gotten himself into when he accepted this invitation.
"Well then, detective, I'll give you now my full confession." Mr. Watson decided with a heavy sigh. "And you may do with it what you may. I fear I don't have much longer, and so a prison cell would be short lived, if necessary at all."
"A prison cell? Mr. Watson, surely you have nothing to be guilty of?" Greg asked with something of a laugh, trying to figure out just what harm this old man might've done. Yet Greg's humor did not appear to be shared, for all the while he chuckled his host seemed all the more uneasy, as if he had been hoping for a reaction a little bit more legitimate.
"The state you find someone in is not always the state they originated in." Mr. Watson warned. "In any case, Mr. Lestrade, we all have our pasts."
"Yes Sir, I suppose we do." Greg agreed hesitantly. "Some more criminal than others."
"And that is the story I intend to tell, Detective. The story of my past, how long ago it may have been. The story that I had never shared, save with those who had lived through it along with me." Mr. Watson murmured.
"That's why you want me to document it? So that your story should not be lost?" Greg clarified. Mr. Watson nodded his head quietly, his eyes staring off into the distance before he blinked quickly, and moved to pick up a small picture frame which sat on the desk next to him.
"To know my story is to know the most influential characters, first. Or rather to have an idea of who they look like, so as to make sure my own descriptions are not too far off. Know that I am not exaggerating, by looking at him now as when I saw him then." Mr. Watson muttered. He leaned over with some effort, his trembling fingers passing along the picture frame so that Greg could take a look. It was an old photograph, in fact Greg might have gone so far as to say it was ancient. It was brown and withered, and yet there still was a distinct photograph of a young boy, no more than twenty five. He was a handsome boy, rough looking yet gentle, with what appeared to be blonde hair and a sparkle in his eyes. He wasn't smiling, yet he looked pleasant enough as he stared into the camera. He was dressed nice and yet his clothes looked awkward on him, as if he was not meant for such attire.
"That's John Watson." Mr. Watson muttered quietly, his voice now sounding very far away. "He died twelve years back."
"Your brother?" Greg presumed, going off of the last name alone, as there was almost no resemblance between the two. Mr. Watson shuffled a bit uncomfortably, before sighing heavily and staring down at his feet with some reluctance.
"My husband." He corrected finally. Greg nearly dropped the photograph, had it not been so important in this conversation and in this context. Yet the surprise was enough to at least make his jaw drop, for while it was a modern age and such a thing was permitted and normalized, this old man sitting before him certainly hadn't been born into such an enlightened age. To think that crazy old Mr. Watson was gay, well that put an entirely different context to him. It didn't make him crazy it made him...well it made him revolutionary.
"You're serious?" Greg clarified, feeling bad for having looked so surprised.
"I wouldn't joke about such a thing." Mr. Watson said quietly. "He was everything to me, Mr. Lestrade, and there could never be another. When he died I was left so utterly alone...alone enough to forget that there were other people in this world. Alone enough to fall into my own trap, and seclude myself because of my own delusions of shame."
"There's nothing to be ashamed of. My coworker, she's gay." Greg offered quickly.
"Well there you go, validation." Mr. Watson muttered, to which Greg could only chuckle. Thankfully the old man's face turned into something of a forced smile, and he puffed a bit more cheerfully on his pipe.
"Sorry, I just thought it might make you feel better." Greg decided with a shrug.
"I will feel better soon." Mr. Watson assured. "Or so the doctors say."
"A recovery date then?" Greg asked hopefully.
"The opposite, actually. Life expectancy. I shall feel better in three months. I will see him again, in three months." Mr. Watson breathed, nodding his head quietly as it he was counting down the days in anticipation. Greg stared a bit mournfully at the man, unsure what to say to that. It filled him with a certain kind of sadness that he was not entirely used to, a sort of sadness that he didn't quite know how to handle. It was difficult because obviously such a thing as death didn't bother Mr. Watson; he was looking forward to it. Yet all the same, death downturned most anyone's heart, except the one it was supposed to take next. And so Greg didn't know whether to apologize or to congratulate him, in the end he decided that silence would be best.
"Do not look so mournful, Mr. Lestrade. I am not as good a man as you would hope me to be." Mr. Watson assured. "But to understand that I believe you must hear it all, starting I suppose, at the beginning. Have you got your pen ready?"
"Yes." Greg agreed, uncapping it and pressing it anxiously against the paper. The more this man alluded to his past the more interested Greg became, and all the hesitations that came with this visit seemed to have melted away with every word that came from that man's mouth. For a moment his host smoked, before he finally pulled his pipe from his lips and began his tale.