A/N: Okay, we've all wanted to fill in some of those gaps in the early H/W relationship. And, yes, I've read dozens of them, myself. But this one was demanding to be written. So, if you're tired of reading these kinds of things and want to move on to something else, I will totally understand.
My primary source of auditory inspiration is a group called Toad the Wet Sprocket. I haven't heard them in years and it was purest accident I stumbled upon them this time. However, some of the sound and lyrics struck me as appropriate to the situation and my frame of mind. I'm adding them just for fun. I agonized over them for way too long. If they really don't fit, please tell me. There was no slash intended.
In the course of my research, I have read several arguments that place Watson and Holmes moving in together at 221B Baker Street anywhere from January to July of 1881. And even some in favor of STUD not taking place until as late as March of 1884. All of these present valid arguments that I can appreciate. However, for the purposes of this story, they met in January of 1881 and STUD took place in March of that same year.
I often feel
Like the prodigal son
Take all I need
Giving back none
Our beauty shows
In such different ways
You're like the light behind the fog
~Toad the Wet Sprocket: Brother
Prologue
Watson shuffled in through the front door leaving a wet trail as he entered. The chilly, wet weather had him aching terribly as he struggled to shrug out of his coat. Wrapped in his miserable thoughts, he longed for his fireside chair in the sitting room and a cup of tea. He was not entirely surprised to find the sitting room door closed and muffled voices filtering through from the other side. Holmes had another client. Stifling his disappointment, he kept a firm grip on his cane as he changed direction to struggle limpingly up the next flight of stairs to his bedroom.
In an attempt to put a better light on his day, Watson struggled to contort himself until he was able to divest himself of his soggy clothing and into something warm and dry. In the mirror he caught sight of the twisted mass of scar tissue that had once been his shoulder. He'd lost count of the days he'd spent staring at it, trying to convince himself it wasn't as bad as it seemed. He knew the resilience of the human body. His standing here now was proof of that much. And, yet, it still mocked him. Frowning darkly, he turned away from the mirror and resumed dressing. Only when that hideous mess was covered did he at last turn back to the mirror to compose himself.
For a moment he toyed with the idea of going down and seeing what kind of case Holmes had picked up today. Holmes had not turned away his company in the presence of a client since before the events of the past year that introduced him to Holmes' profession as the only private consulting detective in the world. As if in response to his thoughts, his similarly war-wounded leg flared pain briefly at the idea of having to traverse the stairs once more. In this damp, cool weather the combined pain of both his injuries had him feeling like a miserable wretch indeed.
After the events of the day, Watson felt only the more wretched. He would be of no use to Holmes even in his limited capacity as sounding board in his current frame of mind, and he well knew it. Feeling the need to purge himself of these thoughts, he turned to the one comfort that had never abandoned him. Shuffling carefully across the room and back again, he retrieved his latest little brown journal and a pen. Settling himself more comfortably on the bed, he stared down at the blank page before him.
The words would not come.
He scribbled the date and time.
Only one word was on his mind now. It was a word he had heard enough times that it should not surprise him anymore. Part of him still did not want to accept it. He continued to stare at the blank page, feeling as if the journal itself were staring back at him mockingly. A single drop of ink fell from the tip of his forgotten pen to land like a teardrop. For the first time in his life, Watson composed a journal entry that consisted of a single sentence.
License to practice surgical procedures: Denied
The bitterness he had kept at bay for so long rose up at these words. He waited only long enough for the ink to dry. As he began to close the journal to put it aside, his shoulder gave a sudden stab of pain as if mocking him further. In a fit of temper, he flung the journal across the room with his good arm. The little thump it made as it bounced off the wall to land on the floor did not seem like enough. For one, brief moment, he wanted to tear the room around him apart. He wanted to scream. He wanted to weep. He wanted...
Burying his face in his hands and forcing himself to breathe deeply, Watson forced back the swirling tide emotions that left him trembling. Only when he felt he had regained control of himself, did he finally shift himself back to his feet. Considering the pain of having to shuffle back across the room to retrieve the journal fitting punishment for his little outburst, he carefully placed it once more on his desk. Having no idea how long it would be before Holmes would be through with his client, Watson took up a book and decided to forget himself and his miserable excuse for an existence for a few hours.
~o~o~o~
In the now open doorway of the sitting room, Holmes glanced up curiously as he heard the little thump. He frowned as he heard Watson shuffling slowly across his bedroom. He had heard the doctor come in, and was somewhat surprised that the man had not joined them in the sitting room. Watson had been fairly bouncing with anticipation this morning as he had gathered his things and left. Though he had said nothing to Holmes of his activities for the day, there was only one thing other than a case that would have brought such a light to the man's expression.
Holmes could easily deduce the results for himself.
Somewhat irritated at his flatmate's ill-timed decline in mood, Holmes contemplated the door at the top of the stairs. Briefly Holmes wondered how many times the stubborn fool would put himself through this before he would accept the obvious? He had seen it before, though. Some people would continue to live in denial until the truth destroyed them. He wondered if that would be the case for this strangely complex man he had come to know over the course of the last year.
Given the weather, Watson was likely feeling the effects of his day spent in the cold, damp weather. Now that his client had left, he considered the idea of sharing this rather exciting bit of news on his newest case. The idea that Watson would appreciate the soothing warmth of the fire had nothing to do with it, of course. As he continued to wait for a few seconds to see if Watson would come down for some tea and the heat of the fire, he quickly changed his mind. Obviously his flatmate's mood was as foul as the weather. Watson had a habit of containing his less pleasant turns within the confines of his bedroom; for which Holmes was extremely grateful, as he had enough to deal with in his own mind.
Turning back toward his chair and closing the sitting room door behind himself, Holmes glanced at the chair across from his own beside the fireplace and was somewhat surprised to realized he was disappointed. With the introduction of a new, intriguing case he found he was actually wanting Watson's presence to share his excitement. His flatmate rarely understood his line of thinking or the little details that made such conclusions all the more exciting to him, but he seemed genuinely appreciative of the genius behind those logical deductions once they were explained.
Stuffing his pipe, Holmes flopped into his chair. He wasn't entirely sure when it was the doctor had crossed from temporary flatmate to part-time partner in his budding career. But as it seemed the doctor was no longer a surgeon and had little else to do with his life, Holmes felt the introduction of his work into the man's life might at least provide some entertainment.
He had not been wrong.
Hearing more restless shuffling upstairs, Holmes snorted in disgust. If his flatmate had decided to spend the day feeling sorry for himself, then let him have at it. As he had a new case to occupy his time, he really shouldn't be wasting time contemplating a man's moods unless it had something to do with the case itself. Putting all thoughts of Watson aside, he focused on the ring he now held in his hands.
Such a simple thing to mean so very much to a single person. But is it worth murder? Holmes wondered.
