W POV — finished — now live!✨

The Patreon link in my last post is now updated with the fixed pronouns!

❤️❤️😆 That was a lot—lesson learnt, write POVs with mc as (you)...

The 6.1 update comes with a bunch more words and:

• More H scenes and choices!

• Ro reflections in the carriage! (for everyone not there!)

• And, of course, W pov (interactable)!

But, if you're in a hurry, here's a more easily read W pov version, with one random road taken—

John version: (see pdf for better formatting and Jane!)

Watson had seen the detective walk down these same stairs in many disguises, on many different days, in many different manners of dress.

And yet, nothing had prepared him.

Nothing could prepare him.

Not for this.

Not for you.

——

To say Watson was nervous was an understatement. Of course, Watson was nervous about many things tonight, few of which were under his definitive control, but all of them involved you.

But when he saw you, there, as you walked down to the landing of the stairs... The nerves all melted away, much like his blood pooled at his now heavy feet. And, soon, followed his sense—

Both laid out on the wooden floor.

As if he stood on them, unsteady and unsure. Somehow, he swore he could feel the beat of his blood, that damning loud pulse, as if below your heels.

As if his heart was bare by your feet, sneered or trampled.

Yet, he did not mind such ownership.

You may take it all.

———

Watson and his detective stood there for many moments too long. Him, gazing at you. At your eyes and familiar visage. But he did not notice the breach of time-gated etiquette by his stares at that moment. No, he noticed more how you looked and, how dry his mouth was and how little he had said when he wanted to...

How he wished to tell you...

Tell you...

He mustn't tell you. And time simply flew by as he stood there, frozen.

Thankfully, appearing more thawed than John was, as he saw it—your feet moved. At that moment, Watson finally found that edge of resolve, that courage he always found under fire, and his feet moved too, by whatever blood and sense had finally found its way there.

He held his hand out. A steady hand, by some god-given grace.

It did not flutter; it remained unpanicked, unlike his heart and blood.

God, he was known to be strong. But you made him so weak...

Did you truly not know how much?

———

The doctor, in turn, knew his eyes were glued to your face.

But it was a damn better option than the alternative. His eyes, forced by all the politeness he may muster to not travel a gaze downwards where it may linger in places one may lose oneself for good.

It was at this time he had first tried to truly speak, but his voice came out horrifyingly breathless and broken, "Sherlock..." He had tried to smile, but it was uneven and too plastered on.

He cursed himself for that. Inaudibly, yet in his mind loudly and vulgarly, with words he only recalled from his youth.

The polite tongue he always held felt as if it was slipping by the day.

He did not know how to cease such moral descent.

Not with you around.

And all the additional interlopers abound.

—-

“You do not care for it…” you had said.

That had caused one more curse to not be uttered but entirely heard in his mind.

‘Not... care for it?'

How could he not, he thought as his eyes roamed down by some allowance in those words, and he drank every penny worth of the sight.

An angel, in a delicate style that brough you out in delicate white and further blinding, opalescent white.

How could he not…

You were...

“I…” He swallowed again. “Forgive me, it is quite the...”

He forced himself back into more polite gazing, rather than leering, and found some final word as he met your eyes, ”Opposite...”

Your eyes had more punch than gun powder, he thought then—and had, many times before—but he only ever thought it. He did not write such truths in their stories or even in his journal.

No, for he feared putting pen to paper of such hidden truths would uncover them enough for deduction to discover.

Little was ever hidden from beyond your fair, alluring lashes and dazzling eyes.

He knew that...

He knew that far too well.

———

“It is?” you had asked so softly.

Did you know how soft your voice could be? When you spoke sweet words to him, or you felt unguarded or weak, then you returned with a voice that he was sure must be reserved for only him.

Nonetheless, he did not wish for you to doubt. Not ever.

So he had said, in words he thought would come out in order, “Sherlock, you… I apologise."

But the words did not. Could not. Not by a tongue as knotted as his heart.

Watson further blushed, as he had been, and he knew as such, and his mind found further curses inside for that. "I did not know I’d be without capable words.”

But he did know.

Of course he knew.

You were his undoing. You were his weakness. His main motivation and his fatal flaw.

And he would not change it for the world. Not if it killed him.

“You look just as I…" he attempted words once more. "that I expect you hoped that you would look. Radiant. Wonderful. Trust this—and… beyond, in my eyes.”

The man paused and almost sighed, but no air left his lungs or parted lips. “But how do I say this—I do not know how to say that… that you look lovelier than I have ever seen you before, and exactly as I have always seen you?”

———

You had always been radiant in his eyes. From that first glowing moment to all the blinding moments since. But he did not wish for you to doubt. He fears his words will cause harm unless he clarifies—

“I swear, I must be making a fool of us both. My words carry no sense whatsoever—“ he cleared his throat and stepped further to stand now steady with both feet on the step below you. Once again, that polite pause as he tries to explain, to formulate his heart from his mind.

“You look remarkable. Always. But now all of London will see it too. And, so… perhaps remain by my side? Just for the night. I do not quite know if London is ready for a brilliant an individual who shines this bright…" he sighed.

As you were, all that loveliness on display... he did not want to share that vision with others. He knew too well what it would inspire in others, what they would imagine.

"Perhaps if the English language had stronger words—then perhaps I could tell you better, how you appear before me. As you always do… Always have.”

———

"Then... you do not dislike it?" You had asked once more.

How... how do you doubt this? How do you still?

Beautiful, wonderful, Sherlock...

"No," he had answered with a grin, as the question felt so far removed from his feelings that it was practically comical.

"No, dislike—dislike could not be a word further from the truth, Sherlock. I simply fail at words. Not appreciation,” he laughed.

It felt a warm, happy thing. And you had smiled, too, and he wished nothing would ever make you stop.

-----

If anyone made it here --

I might do a valentines special RO letter Q&A. Send letters on valentines to the ROs, and hear back (after a little while)! 💖

Would that be fun?