November 1916 Holmes hopes that Watson has been relatively happy in those last two years.
June 1915
Despite Watson's protest, as well as the protests of his physicians,the nurses and even despite warnings of Mycroft, to whom he seldomly spoke and only if he had to, he continued to visit Watson in the sanatorium, took him out for walks if he was able to, told him what he was allowed to tell of his own efforts to end the war, half hoping the illness would just go away (which was of course not going to happen), half hoping it would infect him just so he would not have to bear Watson's loss (he never spoke that thought out loud).
Watson's body was but a sickly husk for a healthy mind. Sometimes Watson was almost unable to bear the pain his coughing caused him. When that happened, he banished Holmes from the room with The Glare, but Holmes never strayed far, usually waiting outside the door until the fit had passed. He always feared that the next cough would be the last and absolute silence would follow instead of the by now familiar raspy breathing.
Watson was reluctant to take any morphine for the pain, fearing that it would hinder his breathing too much as it was already shallow. So he suffered in silence and with dignity for which Holmes could not but admire him, hopeing Watson would recognise it for what it was and note take his looks as pity.
November 1916 He has certainly tried to cheer his friend in this hopeless situation.
April 1916
That day, Watson had been unable to muster the strength to take a walk with him. It was a rural area, the air was fresh and mild, largely untouched by the progress that had taken over London and other great parts of England. Progress that had brought suffering as well, especially in this war to end all wars.
Fortunately, Watson seemed to have learned to accept help more graciously than he had in the past. He had initially refused a blanket, arguing that he would be too warm in the sun. Holmes had ignored his protest, helped settle Watson into the chair with the blanked draped over him, not teasing the doctor when he all but burrowed under its weight and warmth.
He pointed out the differences and characteristics of the sandy way they followed to a nearby pond. Holmes would never admit it but he had made the study especially for Watson's entertainment. Of course he kept telling Watson that it was for the sake of his own mind and to keep himself from boredom. The smile on Watson's face told him his friend knew what he was not saying.
On other days, he brought his violin when Watson was feeling the pain more keenly, playing melodies that reminded them of better times. The gratitude in his friend's eyes on those days was a greater reward than anything that had been bestowed upon him by noblemen and kings after he had solved a case.
November 1916 But sometimes he wonders if it has not been the other way around.
August 1916
On good days, Watson discussed problems and small mysteries with him that other patiens had brought to his attention. Years ago, these would have been too trivial to apply his mind to. Now he secretly craved those days.
Holmes could almost forget that the man in front of him was too slight, the eyes dulled by pain, the breath laboured. He also noticed the continued greying of Watson's reddish-brown hair. He measured the time by it, hoping he would see it turn white one day. He teased Watson, needling him. Of course the doctor denied having any vanity in that regard, eventually bringing the conversation to the matter of The Beard Holmes had had when he first visited Watson. Whenever it came up, Holmes would change the topic to something outrageous and outlandish, the result Watson's rare laugh. He always found himself amazed that he remembered to laugh as well then.
November 1916 Everything comes to an end eventually. That he knows, has always known.
October 1916
Mycroft requested his presence in London. Watson had been pained more than ever that evening, barely speaking. He had been lying on his side in his bed, concentrating on his breathing while Holmes had sat on a chair nearby, reading one of Watson's many tales and commenting on it occasionally, his reward a tired half-smile.
Watson's primary physician came into the the room telling him that a wire had come in from London, requesting his presence.
He did not want to go but since it had something to do with England's efforts in the war, Watson told him to leave in a quiet voice. He looked at his prone friend but the dulled blue eyes were closed.
Holmes reached for the coverlet, pulling it up to Watson's neck. He spared a glance for the violin lying on the table on the other side of the bed. He had all but lost interest in it, only enjoying it when playing it to the audience now lying tired and in pain under the blankets. Wondering how priorities and interests changed over the years he called for a motorcar to bring him to the station.
November 1916 But when they do, one never finds himself prepared.
October 1916
He did not see Watson again. His friend passed on that evening while he was decoding enemy messages that had been intercepted.
Holmes was disconsolate, even more so when his brother did offer his consolences in a superior, detaced air that let Holmes doubt his sincirety. Their falling out resulted in frosty silence as it had after Holmes's returns in 1894 and 1914.
He did not, however, cease his effort to end the war, knowing that Watson would have supported him as he always had before.
November 1916 He looks at the flowers planted on the grave. Gladiolus. Or sword lilies they are more commonly called. He thinks them fitting for his friend who has always been a soldier as well as a healer. They would endure the winter. The crimson petals glint in the light of the dying sun. Holmes pulls the muffler tighter around his neck. Snow was late in coming, but it the cold made up for the lack. The muffler is as red as the petals. Red had been a colour Watson liked, despite the fact that blood was red as well. The muffler has been his friend's once and one of the few things he keeps as memorandum. He makes his way back home to an empty cottage. The gold watch on his chain is engraved H.W. and it is scratched in some places. There is no music in the empty cottage. Watson has gifted him with many wonderful things, especially the gift of his friendship. One thing Holmes has had to gift him with had been his music. It has been laid to rest when Watson was, a wooden bow in the cascet a testament to his grief and his gift. His footsteps sound loud in the evening. His cufflinks are black.
Fin.