My Full Confession

That Old Familiar Face

Greg worked all day, trying to distract his wandering mind with regular police business. It wasn't too difficult to get absorbed in the paper work before him, and yet with every break in the numbers and the crimes he let his mind wander off, off towards that little farm house which had been the center stage of Mr. Watson's narrative. He wondered if the place was still standing, and if Mr. Watson would have any interest in visiting again before he passed. The idea made Greg's stomach twist, for while being so entangled in both ends of the man's life he felt as if there was a false sense of immortality. It was almost as if the two were alive at the same time, in fact it seemed as though all phases of Mr. Watson's life had sat in that chair. Greg knew them all personally, his childhood self, his teenaged self, and now his young adult phase. It was the old man he was concerned about the most, though it was the old man who suffered the least emotional pain. Yet he had the end date, there was no guarantee he would make it into the next phase of his life. No guarantee that there would be anymore story to create. Greg continually forgot that Mr. Watson was not a God; no he was just a man. A man who had lived a considerably interesting life, and a life that was fading away startlingly quickly. It sickened Greg to even fathom the idea, but there was the slightest chance that this story went unfinished. There was a chance that he may never know the answers to his questions, for those answers might die off with the last one who knew them. It was with this in mind that Greg sped to the house for his usual time, with something of an anxious feeling in his stomach. He felt as though those thoughts had come to him at a startlingly quick rate, almost as if they had been summoned by another source. Almost as if he was thinking them to prepare himself...prepare himself for tragedy. It was three fifty seven when Greg rang the doorbell, standing anxiously in the cold driveway as a light snow began to fall around him, being blown by the frigid wind. For a moment he waited, his nerves becoming even more excited now that there was hesitation. Surely he wasn't foretelling anything, was he? Surely he hadn't foreseen the immediate future in his fears? He rang the bell again, this time longer. Maybe the old man wasn't wearing his hearing aid, or perhaps he had fallen asleep on the couch and didn't realize the time? Perhaps both? There was a great many reasons the doorbell would go unanswered, yet there was one reason in particular that chilled Greg more than this weather ever could. It was that reason alone that he decided to take this into his own hands. He tried the door, found it locked, and thanked God very quickly that he was a police man, and so trained to handle situations like this. As a man of the law, he was an expert at breaking and entering. Greg summoned his strength, and with a great kick he slammed his foot against the door. It flew open, as expected, and he was able to rush inside now to inspect the inside of the house. The man was nowhere to be seen, the living room was empty...perhaps he had driven away? Greg rushed then to the staircase, running through every room in this unfamiliar home, calling out the man's name desperately. There was no response. He returned downstairs, now checking the lower level. He inspected the living room thoroughly, yet it wasn't until he arrived into the kitchen that he noticed the walking cane lying on the linoleum, and not too far behind it was the shape of a human body, lying on the floor on the other side of the counter. Greg's blood ran cold, and he dashed to where Mr. Watson was lying. Thankfully there was no blood, yet he was completely unresponsive.
"Mr. Watson? Mr. Watson can you hear me?" Greg asked in a panic, holding his fingers to the old man's neck to feel a pulse. It was extremely faint, but it was still there. He was alive, at least for now. This came as hardly a relief, for at such an age recoveries took time...sometimes they did not happen at all. The ambulance arrived not five minutes later, for they realized of course that this was something of an emergency. In a moment they had the old man on a stretcher, strapped in, taking his vitals, and pumping oxygen into his nose with a large mask they fitted over his face. Greg was permitted to ride in the back of the ambulance, and he did so in such a state of anxiety that he felt the need to slide an oxygen mask over his own face as well. The man was alive, the heart monitors confirmed it, and yet he was in such a deep unconsciousness that you would never know it by looking at him. He looked terrifyingly dead.
"Do you know what happened?" Greg asked anxiously, perched on the uncomfortable chair and holding onto Mr. Watson's hand, as if that would do anything to pull him out of this state. Surely Greg's presence would not be much, not nearly as much as John or Mycroft might be able to achieve. And yet he hoped that the mere presence of someone who cared would suffice. He hoped that his being there might convince Mr. Watson that there was still something to fight for, however mediocre that reason may be.
"We can only guess, at this point. He has a history of lung cancer, presumably he had an episode, couldn't catch his breath. He's fainted, and hit his head on the way down." the nurse read from a small computer screen, sounding concerned yet slightly uninterested. Almost as if she didn't realize what sort of man she had lying here in the ambulance. She saw him as no more than just an old man, didn't she? Never once taking into account what sort of history he might have, or what sort of purpose. Greg didn't want to correct her; he didn't want to sing praises to this man when he was not awake to hear them. The ride to the hospital didn't take long, and while Mr. Watson was being treated Greg was forced to wait in the waiting room, along with all sorts of other distressed family members. He had a couple of cups of terrible coffee, pacing the length of the decorative carpet and messaging his temples strenuously. There might be an end date, oh like Mr. Watson said before; he was the last one of the entire story. He was the last to survive; he would go back to them all the moment his eyes shut for good. And Greg didn't want to be selfish, he didn't want to deprive that man of any time he might be able to have with John Watson, or with Mycroft. However there was a story, a story that still needed to be told! It was a rubbish autobiography if it stopped in the middle, and was never completed. Greg called Molly for good measure, informing her of what had happened and where he was. Being the good wife she was she had already grabbed her car keys, and was ushering the boys into the car just as soon as she hung up. It was another ten minutes before Molly arrived, and yet it was so good to see a familiar face that Greg almost collapsed into her arms with the strain of it all. His heart was breaking, he felt it inside of his chest, yet seeing her face somehow convinced him that something was alright in the end. Not everything would fall apart when Mr. Watson faded from this earth.
"Greg, my goodness is he alright?" Molly exclaimed, releasing her husband from her grip and puling at her hair anxiously.
"He's alive, I think. I don't know what happened, they say he might have passed out, but they don't know. He's not woken up yet, I can't help but..."
"Don't think like that." Molly insisted, patting Greg's shoulder and leading him over to the couches to sit down. Together they sat, and the boys followed suit rather glumly. They looked upset; even though Mr. Watson was hardly their favorite person on the earth they still seemed to value his presence. Greg was happy to see there was a change in their attitude, yet he was never happy to see them upset. Perhaps it was just the relief that they had the potential to care that made him feel a bit better about things. The wait was tedious; it was stressful to the point where it was almost nauseating. Molly held her husband's hand throughout the whole thing, and yet Greg could not relax until a nurse came into the waiting room, and called his name. Greg got to his feet quickly, nearly running up to the nurse for news. He knew that it was now or never, whatever words escaped her lips would determine the fate of not just Sherlock Watson, but William Holmes as well.
"He's awake." She said quietly. "But he is terribly weak, I'm afraid."
"That's...oh thank God. Moly, he's woken up!" Greg exclaimed happily, turning towards his wife with a large smile of relief on his face, one that was exchanged from the other side of the room. Molly looked very relieved to hear it.
"Can I see him?" was Greg's next question, to which the nurse bowed her head.
"He is recovering, and so I think only one visitor at a time is possible." She said quietly.
"Yes, yes alright." Greg agreed. "Just let me see him."
"Very well, Mr. Lestrade. If you could follow me." the nurse agreed, leading Greg out of the waiting room and towards the patient rooms down the hall. It was one of the last rooms on the left, and when Greg was admitted entry he found the old man lying on a bed, with his eyes open and facing the ceiling. Just as soon as the door opened Mr. Watson tried to adjust himself, yet it seemed to take too much energy and so he fell back onto his pillow with a wince. It was so good to see him alive and moving again that Greg couldn't recognize at first how withered and pitiful the man had grown to be. His skin had grown ghostly pale, and his frail body looked so thin in the gown the hospital provided. He looked more old and sickly than Greg had ever seen him, and yet still the fact that he was alive put a smile on his face.
"Mr. Watson, oh thank god." Greg exclaimed, sinking into a chair next to the bed while the nurse closed the door behind him, giving the two the privacy they deserved. Mr. Watson let his head roll to the side, so as to see his guest more clearly.
"Detective." He muttered finally, before staring back up at the ceiling once more.
"How are you feeling?" Greg asked anxiously. The man gave a sigh, a wheezy one at that, something that was not convincingly healthy.
"I almost saw him again, Detective. I was...I was just beginning to make out his face." Mr. Watson whispered.
"Who's face?" Greg asked anxiously.
"John's, of course." The man whispered. "I almost saw John."
"Mr. Watson, you almost died." Greg insisted nervously, startled at the fact that he almost didn't seem to care. Mr. Watson nodded his head, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them again remorsefully.
"Yes. I heard it was because of you that I am still here." he whispered in a struggling voice.
"No need to thank me." Greg said humbly.
"I wasn't prepared to." Mr. Watson assured. "I almost saw him. Yet I didn't."
"Don't act like that's a tragedy. You'll see him soon enough. Evidently your time here isn't finished, there's still more story to tell." Greg insisted anxiously, clutching onto the rail of the bed, as if trying to convey his enthusiasm. For a moment the man was silent, as if preparing his own opinion very slowly. For a moment Greg wondered if he might have preferred death, and yet he nodded solemnly.
"Yes, I suppose you're right." He admitted after a long moment's pause.
"You're feeling alright?" Greg clarified.
"I am alive. That is all I must worry about, for the doctors have ensured that I feel nothing but alive." He muttered, nodding now to the machine he was hooked on. Evidently there was a drug passing through, morphine presumably, which was keeping him calm and at ease. "They always do love to restart old addictions."
"You were addicted to morphine?" Greg asked with some surprise. The man chuckled, shaking his head as if such a thing shouldn't be taken so seriously.
"You weren't?" he asked in an equally sarcastic tone. "Oh what does it matter now? I am fated to die soon anyway. Why not make some moments more blissful than others?" he gave a great sigh, and settled into his bed a bit more comfortably.
"Don't talk as if your life has no value, Mr. Watson. Don't talk as if your death is something so...so trivial." Greg urged.
"I am a man out of my time, Mr. Lestrade. A man cursed to grow old and watch decades pass, too alone to do anything about it. I am here only because I have not yet had the pleasure of death. I am here, suffering for twelve years because Death too seems to want nothing to do with me. When I die I shall see John Watson again. So no, my death is not trivial. My death, in some ways, is preferable." He admitted quietly.
"Not to me. And if you cared anything for me you would adopt at least...at least a shred of sympathy." Greg insisted anxiously. Mr. Watson was silent, again letting his head fall onto his pillow so as to better see his guest. His eyes were softer now.
"I had never had a son, Mr. Lestrade." He said quietly. "And yet there are times when you make me feel as though I did."
"So stay strong." Greg whispered, almost tearfully pleading the man to have some willpower.
"I think what I need now is rest." Mr. Watson decided finally. "I must recover my strength."
"Yes alright, that's a good idea. You want me to leave?" Greg presumed.
"Unless you want to watch me sleep." Mr. Watson said with something of a chuckle. "Which I don't think I would entirely appreciate." Greg forced a smile, getting to his feet in compliance.
"Yes alright, I see when I'm not wanted." He agreed finally. "But I'm glad you're well. You nearly gave me a heart attack."
"And you, Mr. Lestrade, nearly gave me a reason to live. Be more careful next time." the man grumbled.
"Sleep well, Mr. Watson." Greg insisted, patting the man's hand in some sympathy.
"And you as well." The old man agreed. "Thank you, Greg."
"I thought you weren't going to thank me?" Greg clarified in something of playful accusation.
"Not for saving my life. Thank you for caring. That is all." Mr. Watson muttered.
"Yes." Greg agreed, nodding his head a bit awkwardly. "Anytime." And with that he gave one last smile, retreating out the door and snapping it closed as quietly as he could. For a moment he stood there, leaning against the door frame and staring off into space, not expecting it to be staring back. Yet he stood there and saw that space was looking back at him, space had taken the form of an appreciative young man. And with its golden hair, it smiled. 

 It took three more days until Mr. Watson was allowed to go back home, and yet he was completely bed ridden. They had a nurse come visit him every day to give him his medication and tend to all of his other needs, and it was all Greg could do but wait for any sign that he might be able to go over and see the man once again, for a continuation of the story. He waited rather impatiently, for he was almost angry with the old man for seeming to care so little about his own life. Greg found that rather insulting, understandable yet almost pitiful. He hated to hear people talk so negatively about themselves, and when Mr. Watson just shrugged away a near death experience it was heartbreaking to witness. And so Greg wanted to see him, not just for the story but for a good telling off. When the phone call didn't get made Greg decided to take matters into his own hands. He watched from his window as the nurse's van pulled away, and he decided that it would probably be a good time to visit. It was around five o'clock at night, yet Greg explained to Molly rather quickly where he was going before starting out the door and into the cold. About a foot of snow had collected throughout the days, and while Greg's driveway and the road was plowed, Mr. Watson had left his driveway neglected, for obvious reasons. Well obviously he wasn't going anywhere, and he didn't have the strength to handle it himself, however it must have been impossible for the nurse to get her van up. As predicted, Greg saw her little footprints in the snow, and he could only imagine how cold and wet her feet became when she finally reached the door. He made a mental note to help with shoveling, right as soon as he was rewarded with the next bit of the story. When he rang the doorbell there was no answer, and yet when he tried the door handle he found that it was unlocked. A rather unsafe way to stay stranded, certainly, yet Greg could think of no better option for allowing guests in and out. If Mr. Watson wasn't allowed to get out of bed then there would be no way of admitting his captive audience unless he left the door unlocked. 

"Mr. Watson, it's Greg!" he called up, towards the staircase where he suspected the bedroom must be. He heard a weak little reply, from the top of the stairs as expected, and in a moment he ascended up into the hallway. The door was open, and there was Mr. Watson, sitting up against his headboard and looking rather withered. While there was color in his face he had lost a considerable amount of weight since the last Greg saw him, and he looked more like a raisin than ever before.
"Hello Detective." Mr. Watson muttered in a weak, suffering voice. "I'm glad you've come."
"Yes well, I thought you'd be lonely." Greg said with a shrug.
"No, not for the company. For my pipe! The nurse won't give it to me, it's just downstairs on the coffee table, and the tobacco is..."
"I'm not giving you that pipe. You've got lung cancer!" Greg interrupted.
"Yes I have, but nothing's going to change that now, is it?" Mr. Watson scowled.
"You could get worse." Greg offered, pulling up a desk chair and sinking into it rather pitifully.
"How terribly rational of you, Detective. It rather sickens me." Mr. Watson admitted a bit hotly.
"Oh stop with your addictions now, let's get onto mine. You must tell me what comes next." Greg insisted.
"Ah, now that is something the nurse would allow me. Your notebook, it's there on the dresser." Mr. Watson said, pointing to where the corner of the thing was just visible. Greg nodded, getting to his feet and retrieving the thing. He had already written through about half of it, all in nearly legible handwriting. It would certainly make a good story, once he was able to type it out.
"You left off...yes here, when Mycroft had begun to cry. Right after Victor, well right after the incident on the porch." Greg muttered, his face becoming just a little bit red in embarrassment.
"Yes, poor lonely Victor. What an evening that had amounted to." Mr. Watson sighed.
"Well then, what comes next? You're to be married, Mycroft is stagnant, Victor is Sherriff?" Greg insisted.
"Oh alright, Mr. Lestrade. If you do insist, I think I shall jump to just a week later." He decided finally. Greg nodded, touching the pen down to where he had last left off, and looking up to the man eagerly.