Despite his various misadventures with Holmes over the years, Watson had never before spent a night detained at Her Majesty's pleasure in the company of various gentleman of presumably ill repute. Granted, he had never been involved in the sinking of a half-constructed ship before, either, but evidently, there is a first time for most things in life.
Although to be quite fair, the damage to the vessel had been more Holmes and the gargantuan Frenchman's doing that his: he had done relatively little to deserve such a fate, other than staying with Holmes to ensure that he did nothing foolish and returned with his head intact. There lay, perhaps, his greatest folly: staying in the first place. He should have known in that very moment he decided that all chance of meeting with Mary had vanished with nary a backwards glance nor tip of the hat.
Oh, but he dreaded to contemplate exactly what Mary's parents thought of him now; suffice it to say that it was unlikely to be complimentary.
The night had passed peacefully, for the most part, their fellow convicts having kept to themselves in the hours of darkness, perhaps trying to snatch a few fleeting moments of sleep in whatever way they could. Watson had not been able to achieve such a luxury, the day's events having stimulated his mind to the point where sleep was an impossibility; Holmes, on the other hand, had no such trouble, having been – somewhat begrudgingly, and with good reason considering the circumstances – permitted the use of a comfortable support in the form of Watson's shoulder.
It was strange how such a position could feel so intimate and yet so distant. Were they back at the rooms in Baker Street, Watson would have been able to draw Holmes close, to enjoy his presence and his warmth. But here... here, all he could do was remain as still as possible in order that he not wake Holmes, and flick through the book of his latest notes on their work together. It made for disquieting reading material. The sheer number of times that he had let Holmes lead him into incalculably dangerous situations without a second thought as to what precisely Holmes was planning to do was staggering.
It had to be a sign of some sort of illness, some sort of mental weakness, of derangement, even.
Or perhaps it was just love.
The eastern sky began to grow light, fading from velvet black to palest grey tinged with roseate light. Holmes slept on; and Watson, not having the heart to wake him, waited patiently for him. Just like he always seemed to do.
He waited for the dawn.