Swaying Seas of Regret.
SUMMARY - Watson confronts Holmes after seeing his reaction to the handkerchief. A short missing scene in the form of a one-shot. Friendship, Hurt/Comfort.
"Holmes?" Doctor Watson asked as he pushed open the door of the cabin. The detective was standing next to the round window on the other side of the room. Immediately the doctor knew that something was wrong, but then again he had known that the moment he had seen Holmes's face when he picked up the handkerchief.
Something was the matter and the good doctor planned to fix it.
Sherlock Holmes turned with a start as he heard his friend enter the room. He wondered why Watson had decided to speak with him. They had only finished their last conversation minutes ago and there wasn't much else that needed to be said. Nothing important anyway. The detective turned back to the window before answering.
"He's in here."
"Are you sure? He seems a million miles away."
Both men smirked, but remained completely serious. The doctor wanted to help and the detective wanted to hide. Only one would have their way.
Watson decided to jump straight into his query, knowing that this was the best way to get information out of his friend. The detective was troubling him, more so than usual. Rude remarks and complete insanity he had learned to deal with, but this was something new entirely.
"Where did you come by the handkerchief, Holmes?"
The detective hesitated for a moment before turning. He did his best to act normal. It was strange, he thought, that a man like himself who could be so many things had trouble simply being himself. Maybe he didn't have a self at all. Maybe he was going to die alone.
He dismissed his thoughts and managed he keep a straight face as he spoke, knowing all the while that the doctor could see straight through him.
"A… friend. It hardly matters. Would you like a drink?"
"No. It does matter Holmes."
The doctor had stepped forward now. He was not amused. Why did that stubborn fool have to be so… so stubborn, when people were simply trying to help him?
"Did you know that although sea-men were traditionally known to drink a fair amount of rum and other alcohol, you would hardly find any of the stuff on board their ships during working hours?"
"Holmes," Watson said, barely louder than a whisper.
"They used to drink when the boat was docked and then sneak bottles of it back on board, hiding it rather cleverly. I might have even had a little trouble finding it…"
"Holmes." This time it wasn't said as softly but the detective ignored it all the same.
"A little trouble but trouble no less." Holmes was walking slowly along one side of the cabin, his hands fiddling with his sleeves as he spoke.
"Holmes," the doctor said again, this time almost shouting.
"Now of course there are strict measures taken-"
"Holmes!"
The detective froze mid sentence, finding it harder and harder to keep his face passive. He didn't know what his face would be if it weren't passive but he knew he wouldn't let the doctor see him with a face anything less than just that. He was, however, having trouble stopping himself from glancing around the room as the doctor advanced toward him. He was trying far too hard to avoid his friend's eyes. Watson stopped next to him and spoke quietly, his voice commanding but with an air of worry.
"Who's was it. It was familiar, Holmes I know that much. You mustn't keep things from me."
Holmes clenched his fist against the small table next to him and the doctor. His jaw continued to clench and un-clench and he couldn't stop biting the inside of his cheek or moving his face in some way. This was going to be harder than he thought. Still he managed a nervous and somewhat fake smile and finally answered the question.
"It belonged… to the one and only Miss Irene Alder."
The way Holmes spoke made Watson's heart grow heavy. He feared the next answer but asked the question anyway.
"Did she give it to you?"
"No…" the detective said hesitantly. "Her killer did."
Watson closed his eyes as Holmes turned away, sitting in what looked like an uncomfortable pillowed chair. The detective was now staring off into space, a hand brought up to cover part of his face. For once the doctor saw that his friend was genuinely sad. The same kind of sad he had seen when Watson announced that he was to be married and planned on moving from Baker's street.
He hated it.
"I'm sorry Holmes," he said, looking at the floor before meeting his friend's eyes.
"I wasn't your fault old boy," Holmes said softly, his voice wavering a little. Watson could see that his friend was trying hard not to break.
"We will catch Moriarty."
"Of course."
"And we will give him what he deserves."
"Definitely."
The detective didn't seem very enthusiastic however, which startled Watson even more. Usually his cases were all he cared about. Irene really did have some sort of control over him, a special place in his very heart, just like the one reserved for the doctor.
Watson sighed and sat in the empty chair across from Holmes.
"So," he began, trying to get the detective's attention, "were you really going to follow Mary and Me all the way to Brighton?"
Holmes's eyes looked up at the doctor, who was pleased to finally get a reaction from his companion.
"Of course."
"And if we weren't being followed?"
"I was sure that you were."
"But if we weren't."
Holmes smiled. It was small but it was genuine and the doctor let himself feel a little relief.
"Oh… I'm sure I would've thought of something."