Born For Adversity
"A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for adversity." Proverbs 17:17
————————————————————————————————————
Any reader of dear Watson's rather romanticized accounts of our adventures will be aware of the fact that cocaine usage is a habit he forcefully caused me to resign some years ago. The many years he spent pointedly telling me of the drug's negative effects I had ignored to the best of my efforts, but I could no longer stand to experience that strange and confounding disappointment he would hand me upon witnessing my use of the needle. Therefore, the drug has remained dormant in a portion of my desk, cheerfully neglected.
Even so, there was many a time when I came dreadfully close to pursuing its effects once more. Watson knew - I often caught sight of his eyes straying between me and the cocaine. I thought for sure that when I told him of my intentions to relinquish the narcotic, he would promptly toss it all through our sitting room window. However, he did not, instead trusting me to avoid it and honor his wishes. For that sort of confidence I would pay the price of a little doubt. It was doubt well deserved, for in the years of our partnership I cannot recall one instance where I had earned otherwise. Yet it is that horrible emotion which I have currently been dealt, and I sit here now to pen the events that brought it about before time sees fit to dull their clarity.
It was the fall of 1894, and I felt things between Watson and myself had settled back into normalcy. It had been a bitter year so far; I had succeeded in putting away the devilish Colonel Sebastian Moran, effectively eliminating most if not all of Moriarty's far-reaching influence in this world. However, this victory was heavily overshadowed by the events preceding it, especially in Watson's mind. Feeling he was not likely to be overly fond of my company any longer, I had fully expected to have my lodgings once again in my sole custody. It was not a welcoming prospect, and I did not wish it to be so. I asked him to stay, and contacted some distant relative of mine to make sure he had no reasons but a personal one to say no. I was immensely pleased with the arrangement, and Baker Street was once again home to two residents (excuse me, three - one mustn't forget Mrs. Hudson, and I doubt it is possible at any rate).
Yet true normalcy, I learned, would be long in coming. I had missed a great deal during my three year absence, and Watson was not the man I had left behind at Reichenbach.
Through correspondence with my brother I had learned of the death of Watson's wife earlier in the year, and it took the better part of my self-control to keep myself from discarding the title of Sigerson and boarding the next ship bound for England. To a man of Watson's peculiar disposition, family - whether they are of blood or of choice, I have learned - is of the utmost importance. For two years I had been able to sleep with the knowledge that Mary Watson was with my friend, taking care of both his physical and mental faculties. It was she, I felt, that would keep the pain and grief of my 'death' at bay. To learn of her own, irreversible demise was a bitter, frightening blow. I doubted whether or not my poor Boswell could handle such emotional strain.
However, the plan I had crafted for my return could not compromised, not even for Watson's sake. I forced myself to remain in my state of perpetual wandering, praying to God that the Doctor would not attempt to meet Him.
But now we both were safely in our armchairs, myself shuffling through piles of dull correspondence (honestly, if I had known that our sitting room would be flooded with such monotonous tokens of amazement and praise, I might have reconsidered feigning my death) and Watson penning a presumably idealistic account of our last case. It indeed felt like old times, and I was comfortable in the fact that for now, nothing was amiss.
But I suspect that my powers of deduction, or at the very least, my abilities to read emotion in the actions and expressions of a man, must have been reduced after three years of no real exertion. Or perhaps I was simply too content to notice. Watson has called me a machine on several occasions, but a machine does not err as I did.
"Ah hah!" I cried in undisguised triumph, jolting Watson so that his ink pen slid across the paper. He scowled darkly at me for that one, but I paid him no mind. After a good hour of sorting my mail into piles (so far there had only been one, and that was slated for supper with our fire), I'd found something interesting. I told Watson as much as I fetched my hat and coat, holding the door out to street open so that our partnership could continue on another adventure.
But, for the first time in a long time, Watson refused me.
My spirits dampened considerably, though my excitement had not completely dimmed. Seeing the shadow fall upon me, he hurriedly offered an explanation in order to placate me.
"Holmes, the weather is horrible out there, and my leg is already unbearably sore." He smiled softly, more so than he was wont to do. "I have reservations about even allowing you out into such conditions, but I doubt you are one to take a doctor's advice."
"You know me much too well, my dear Watson."
"Yes, well, when you come home complaining of a bout of pneumonia, don't expect me or Mrs. Hudson to be the least bit sympathetic."
Chuckling slightly at Watson's spell of humor, I hurried outside to hail a cab, satisfied with my friend's answer.
"Holmes!"
I turned around, surprised to see Watson in the doorway, a strange collection of expressions etched in his face. "Be careful, alright?"
Had I a lesser reign on my emotions I might have burst into a small fit of hysterics, though I attribute such a fancy to my elation at the time. It seemed fitting that Watson would so concerned about me in our separation, as he frets enough about my well-being when we are together. He seems to think something dreadful will come to drag me away should I not be in his presence. Such is the nature of worry.
"You have nothing to fear, my good fellow."
I certainly did.
————————————————————————————————————
A/N: I think I wrote a one-shot like this at least a year ago, but it has since been lost. So I decided to turn this little plot bunny into a chaptered story. Goodness knows I need to write more of those.
Dedicated to KCS, who's remarkable stories made me think it wouldn't be such a bad idea to ease myself away from oneshots and drabbles. Welcome to the site!