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In the weeks following Holmes’ untimely death, once I moved out of our Baker Street rooms, I threw myself into work against my better judgement, giving all my care to my patients and saving none for myself. Expectedly, one can only survive on tea, toast, and willpower for a short time before the weight of grief and exhaustion comes calling. The weather as of late had aggravated my old wounds compounded with exposure to patients plagued by fever and respiratory distress day in and day out. Falling ill swiftly, I was in such a terrible way that I was found slumped over my desk in my consulting room, mumbling whether I should have gone over the falls as well.
Though I slipped in and out of consciousness much during this prolonged illness, I was comforted by the fact that I was not as alone as I believed. I could count on seeing Lestrade; he read the newspaper and commented on cases that he wished Holmes and I could have assisted on. Sometimes Mycroft Holmes deviated from his routine to sit in silence that ranged from awkward to companionable for I knew his love for his deceased brother made his presence at my bedside a duty. Though I was no longer her tenant, Mrs. Hudson still insisted on fussing over me, bringing fortifying broth and extra blankets to my room above my surgery. Dr. Moore Agar made sure I was a compliant patient and administered sleeping draughts to ensure I received sufficient rest.
In between these familiar visits, I saw him. It was always the same: someone I did not recognize would stand by my bedside, blow the candles out, and become him with a worried look, a gentle touch of the hand, maybe a sigh before disappearing into the darkness yet again. I must have been close to death to have my dear Holmes in my presence at those times.
“My dear Watson, do not leave me.” He said. This was the first time the spirit chose to speak to me. A small candle illuminated half his face as he drew near.
“But you left me,” I murmured. Just his visage was enough to bring tears unbidden to my eyes tonight. Brave face discarded in my illness, the wounds of grief, tender still, threatened to open again at these appearances. I did not foresee them healing for a long time as his presence ever lingered.
A brush of cool fingers wiped away my tears. “Your current condition surprises me. There were hopes you were on the mend.”
“Still gripped by lethargy and despondency. Admittedly, my heart is more sick than my head,” said I, the truth coming to the surface in my delirium, “Your specter is both a comfort and a torture, Holmes.”
“A selfish act on my part. My continued weakness brings me here, to indulge the compulsion in the darkness. I fear I’ve caused you more pain, my devoted friend.”
“I fear the day when my mind ceases to conjure you up.”
“Truly? I would imagine it would be an improvement.”
“No no, but even then, my heart would keep you close.”
“Why?” He asked in a whisper. It was as if the ghost was having trouble understanding the depth of my attachment to the man he was.
“You know why. Forever my nearest and dearest…my Holmes.”
“Nearest and dearest,” He repeated, reaching out to stroke my cheek tenderly, “I must go.”
“Must you?”
“I…you will see me again. In time.”
As the emotion of this conversation took a toll on my depleted energy, I could feel the pull of slumber on my consciousness as my eyelids grew heavy. “Holmes…”
“Shhh…” I then felt the lightest touch of lips upon mine. “That is a promise.”
I awoke sometime later feeling better, my latest fever broken after having voiced my deepest feelings to the universe in the form of my beloved’s ghost. I knew Holmes would have been pleased he helped me regain my health in some capacity after all the times I looked after him. Once recovered, I resolved to take better care of myself. While his spirit brought me comfort, I did not desire to join Holmes so soon. I would see him again, in time. Till then, every night after my last patient, I would reverently read Holmes’ last letter framed in my consulting room, thinking back to his ghost’s kiss which felt so real.