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The following is a transcript from the video diary of Dr. Joan Watson. While attempting to reach a rigorous standard of accuracy, this text is a reproduction and contains elaborations on the original material by the transcriber (including but not limited to the entry introductions). Any inconsistencies between this document and its source were contributed for factual accuracy or observational purposes.
[Entry 1, 11/29. Watson fills the frame. There's no light in the room but that from her laptop screen, which washes out her skin in an exquisitely unattractive way. Furthermore, she appears to have been crying. Heavily. That is probably an important detail.
She begins talking immediately. It sounds rehearsed.]
My name is Joan Watson. I'm filming this now under suggestion of my therapist. Or my ex-therapist now, I guess. She thought it would be easier to talk to the computer since I wasn't talking to her, and well, we'll just to see if she's right. To be honest, I don't really feel like talking. I haven't in a while. I wish people would stop asking me to, like everything will be better if I start commenting on the weather and complaining about the food they keep bringing me. It's always Italian. I hate Italian, now.
[Pause. Suspiciously long.]
So anyways. I guess that's it. I'm…not sure what to say.
[She turns off the camera.
It is 36 days after the incident.]
[Entry 4, 12/13. There are more lights on, which is unfortunate, for they illuminate what is either an alien life-form or hideous Christmas sweater wrapped around Watson's chest. Her eyes are clear. The maudlin phrase about the eyes being the windows to the soul does have some underlying merit—the majority of human expression is carried out through the eyes and their respective muscles.
Watson's eyes are clear. This is an improvement. What is behind them does not incite a similar sense of relief.]
Hello again. I know it's been a while since my last update. I mean, it's not like anyone is actually looking at these things. I just feel like it's something I should do now. Or maybe it's just habit, but I kind of need that.
Alfredo gave me this sweater. [She tugs at the incriminating garment with a smile that, ridiculously, implies pleasure at it touching her body] He thought I'd think it was funny, and he was right. He's really taken care of me these past couple of months, and I wish I knew how to thank him for it. I don't really leave the house much, so I haven't gotten him anything for Christmas. He told me not to, but I want to do something. I'm not sure what. I only had one gift lined up when it happened. [Her voice skips over the 'it' like a scratched disk. Incriminating display of emotion. She fumbles in the desk drawer for a moment before setting out a small ceramic statue. It is of a bee, garishly cartoonish with infantile eyes and a striped yellow and black sweater. Her fingers seem reluctant to leave it.]
This was going to be his present. I saw it in a thrift shop on one of our cases and I knew it was perfect. Mostly because of how much he would have hated it. I'm pretty bad at giving presents, actually. I have to aim for flat-out horrible and hope it ends up funny.
I'm not sure why I haven't gotten rid of this. I probably should. But not yet.
Not yet.
[The statue is ugly, malformed and cheaply made. It is also perfect.]
[Entry 6, 12/25. The sweater is gone. In the background, a tree blinks placidly. Watson's face is illuminated in alternating swaths of red and green. There's a bottle on the desk. It's full.]
Alfredo just left. He was the last. Ms. Hudson and Detective Bell stopped by throughout the day. Bell brought flowers and shortbread. Ms. Hudson brought tickets to a play she wants us to see next month. I don't remember the name. I'll try to go. I really will.
Alfredo didn't bring anything, which was good, because I didn't really have a gift. I gave him the bee instead. He took some convincing to keep it, but I'm glad he gave in. I couldn't have it around me anymore. It's better for him to have it. I'd never be able to throw it away.
[Her hand reaches out to rest on the stem of the bottle.]
This showed up on our doorstep today. Gift from one of our previous clients. Normally I'd just pour it down the drain, but there's not really any reason to any more. I haven't opened it yet. I don't know what I'm saving it for, but I know I'm going to need it.
[Substance abuse is a well documented phenomenon among victims of physical or emotional trauma. Alcoholism is by far the most common, as the depressive qualities of the drug can induce exhaustion and numbness to the pain.
It never really works.]
[Entry 10, 2/10. It has been a month since the last video update. Watson's face looks darker, as if it's seen the sun for the first time in weeks, but the tiredness in her eyes has gone deeper.]
I went to Prague. Alfredo thought it was a good idea for me to go on a trip, get out of England and my own head. I didn't tell him why I chose it because I knew he would say it was a bad idea.
I had to know. I just had to.
I don't know what I expected. I know I was just seeing what I wanted to see, even then I knew. But if anyone could do it, wasn’t it him? Was I really that stupid to think that everyone had been wrong? It all seemed to line up, all the evidence gathered and the connections made, things only he could have done, and I thought maybe there was a chance.
[She stares into the distance. Her lower lip buckles. It is the first time she has cried on screen in the past five months.]
I just thought there was a chance. I just…wanted to believe. Sherlock was my friend. I want him to be alive again. That's all I want.
[One hand covers her face. The other slams her laptop closed. The video feed goes dark but the audio continues. The sounds of emotional distress continue for 74 minutes, 16 seconds.]
[Entry 11, 2/30. Watson appears to have turned the webcam on in the middle of her entry as an afterthought.
The bottle is on the table. This time, it is empty.]
I thought I'd have more time. There are just people, people who come in to your life sometimes, and they just… they're just there. I dunno. They just—I don't—they're there, and they make you there, and it's so confusing because I'm here and he's not here and I know that's not how's it's supposed to be, it's not…
I don't know. I don't know anymore.
I thought my life was going to be different. I still want it to be. I just don't know what to do.
I want my best friend back.
"Sherlock?"
Watson. Silhouetted against the doorframe. Arms crossed. Stern. "What are you doing on my computer?"
Sherlock raised his eyebrows knowingly. "I am compiling a list of the various species of tree-wood which have been used in furniture since 1880, along with the most common resins associated with each. I'm planning on making a graph."
Watson stared at him for a moment before nodding to herself in that long-suffering way he found so endearing. "Right. And of course you needed my laptop for that."
"Of course, I wouldn't want to clog up my own browser history." He swiveled around to the screen and flexed his fingers. "Actually, it's good that you're here. I could use someone to help me proofread the first forty pages. Shall I read them aloud, or would you prefer them printed out?"
"I'm going to the store," she said, somehow managing to convey an eye-roll in voice alone. "Do you want anything?"
"Yes, a suitable editor for a very specific set of research on furniture materials!" he called after her. After a pause he amended, "And a bag of crisps, if you please!"
He waited until he heard the door click shut before opening the final video. It was the last. He'd been putting it off for months, finding or making excuses for himself as to why he shouldn't watch it. It was a breach of privacy (he'd come this far). Joan would be upset if she knew (she wouldn't know, and she already was upset). He didn't want to (no comment).
In the end, he'd known he had to do it. After he reappeared on Watson's doorstep with a faint smile (and later, a black eye) he had thought she would never forgive him. He'd been wrong on that as well, wrong like he used to think he wasn't capable of being. She'd proven him so. What he put her through was inexcusable and if he hadn't known she was strong he would never have done it, but her resilience still managed to surprise him. For a while he had wondered whether his absence was truly missed at all. Then, he found the videos.
It was an egotistical notion that they were somehow meant for him to see, but if he did believe in some form of cosmic justice (he hadn't decided yet) then this would be its deserts. He had to see how he had made her suffer. To return from the Underworld required penance.
The final transcript stood open-ended. There was no final description, no acute observation he could make to sum up the frozen image of the woman with her head buried in her arms, too tired and too inebriated to do anything but let the tears leak out of her eyes. He left it blank. Not every story could end with a neat little bandage to wrap up all the loose ends. Some things just needed to bleed.
He pressed print. The paper was warm under his fingers as he folded it up and slid it into his pocket. A moment later he deleted the document from his flash drive and shut down Joan's computer. He now had the final copy. It wasn't much in the way of redemption, but it was all Sherlock had right now. Joan had told him herself that she'd never forget what he did to her, the words spitting from her lips like hot embers.
His fingers fiddled with the corner of the paper in his pocket. He wouldn't forget either. He owed her that, and so much more. Maybe Joan wouldn't want him to suffer, but he was a firm believer in Hammurabian law when it suited him. It was his duty to understand exactly the kind of pain he'd inflicted on the people in his life, no matter the ends he'd been working towards. He didn't know if he would have done things differently. Such uncertainty was not a common factor in his life.
In time, he would find some way to make it up to her. Or perhaps he wouldn't; but he would try. Joan had carried that pain with her for far too long. Now it was his turn.