Dedicated to KCS, for all her encouragement and support.

A Question of Friendship

I am ashamed to admit that I had been avoiding Watson lately. Rather, I had been avoiding being alone with him. I knew he wanted to talk to me privately, and I knew what he wanted to say. But I'd held him off as long as I could, and one afternoon he cornered me by my desk and asked his question.

As I looked into Watson's pleading brown eyes, I knew I wouldn't be able to refuse him. I could see on his face what he expected me to say, and indeed my first instinct was to say it. But he'd made his request with such hope and expectation; how could I tell him no?

After all, this was the man who was always at my back in a fight, who had tended me through injuries and illnesses both serious and slight, and who tolerated my more bothersome habits with scarcely any censure. This was the man with the boundless patience of a saint; whom I trusted with my very life, always ready and willing to follow me into any danger. He has defended my methods and my words against any detractors, and has been a staunch supporter and steadying influence when my own thoughts grew too dark. He was my biographer, my Boswell, and he was my dear friend, indeed the only person in the world I cared about other than Mycroft.

I remembered how often I've dragged Watson out of bed in the middle of the night, had him rushing to catch cabs and trains, sent him on fact-finding missions and then criticized every detail he brought back to me. I've kept him up till all hours, dragged him halfway across London and back again with no thought of his bad leg, and frequently made him miss his dearly-loved meals. I've berated him for his wrong deductions, belittled his writing, and forbade him to publish what are really quite good accounts of our cases. I routinely drove him from the sitting-room we shared with harsh tobacco smoke, chemical fumes, or the worst black moods ever seen in a man. He'd been punched, kicked, cursed, and shot at because of me. And yet he stays, a fact that has always amazed me.

And what he asked was truly a small thing, hardly anything at all, such a little thing. Indeed, Watson asked so little of me; he never had. But this request carried obligations with it, obligations that I usually tried with all my Bohemian soul to avoid. It required attending various social engagements, wearing evening wear, and making casual conversation with people I didn't know and had no intention of ever seeing again. It required me to help him in arrangements, and to stand before a room full of people, something I absolutely loathed. It required me to make a commitment, one that I could not break. And that was the hardest part.

I am not the most reliable of men. I frequently forget appointments and meetings, and am notoriously unorganized. I tend to rush about in an insane hurry, or alternately, lie senseless on the settee for days upon end. I frequently take things and people for granted, as Watson can attest. I can be thoughtless, rude, self-centered and arrogant. Even when not engaged on a case, I am distracted by small clues and happenings which may or may not be relevant. I can go for days without speaking, as my mind is my favorite dwelling place, and the outside world often holds no allure for me. Mycroft despairs of me ever growing up, and indeed, I had let him down so often that I could scarcely blame him. And I'd disappointed Watson too, more times than I wished to count, and definitely more times than he deserved.

But not this time, I resolved. I will not let him down this time.

I carefully kept my face an impassive mask as these thoughts passed quickly through my mind. I knew Watson was waiting uneasily for my answer. I looked back at him and saw in his face that he anticipated what I was going to say. His eyes were dark with disappointment and hurt, but as I looked at him he straightened his back and let his own mask fall back over his face. His eyes met mine, and I could see his resolve and stubborn nature take over. He wasn't going to let me know I'd hurt him.

Somehow, in the years of our friendship and lodging together, Watson had acquired the unsettling ability to discern my thoughts in certain circumstances almost as well as I could read his. I was frequently taken aback to realize that my friend knew what I was thinking. In this instant I let my lips quirk in amusement, as I realized that he had come to a completely erroneous assumption regarding my answer. I saw hurt flicker across his eyes again at my small smile, and hastened to correct his assumption. As much as I enjoyed what he called my "theatrics", even I knew that this was not the appropriate time for them. Watson had made his request in earnest, and it was of the utmost importance to him.

"My dear Watson, I would be honored to stand up as best man at your wedding" I said quickly, to forestall any hurt feelings. I was most entertained to watch the parade of emotions flowing across his face at my words. His face passed from hurt, to disbelief, and then at last, to that slow, shy smile that I was constantly trying to elicit.

"Really, Holmes?" he asked uncertainly. "You really will be my best man?" The look on his face elicited some feelings of guilt as I realized that this expression was born of the many times I had disappointed him in my words and actions. I was determined not to do that again.

"I wouldn't miss it for the world, old chap" I answered sincerely, letting my own smile mirror the slowly spreading one on his own. "After all, it's a question of friendship, isn't it? It's the least I could do for you, my friend." I clapped him on the shoulder as I passed him, sitting down in my chair with my pipe. Watson remained standing for a moment and then fell tiredly into his own chair with a sigh of what I supposed was relief.

"Thank you, Holmes" he said quietly, letting his relief show on his face. "I've been putting off asking you for weeks, dreading your answer. But Mary was quite insistent, in case you said, uh, … er, and well..." he trailed off with a rueful grin.

"I see that she's already working to get her own way" I smirked just to see his reaction. "Just like a woman. Really, Watson, you mustn't let her bully you like that. Soon she'll be forbidding you to see me, and keep you holed up at home all the time."

Watson grinned at this, but we both knew that I had just given words to deep-seated, unspoken fear. Watson cleared his throat and said softly "Holmes, it won't be like that at all. Mary is quite fond of you" he ignored my rolled eyes at this and stumbled on doggedly. "She knows how much you – and our cases – mean to me. We've talked about this, and she has no intention of keeping me away from you. Yes, things will be different; of course there will be changes. But I'll still be available to assist you with your cases. I wouldn't miss that for the world." He carefully avoided my eyes as he finished "One thing will never change. You'll always be my dear friend, Holmes, and you'll always be welcome in my – in our home."

I found I had no fit words to respond, though I met his eyes hoping that he could see the gratitude in my own. We sat together in companionable silence for some time, comfortable in each other's presence, and finding no need for words. Finally Watson roused himself with a sigh and rose from his chair, murmuring something about going to tell Mary the good news. He stopped by my chair to give my hand a firm handshake and thanked me again before leaving the room.

I leaned back in my chair, smoking thoughtfully. I rather dreaded the next few weeks of planning and arrangements, all leading up to the day when my friend would be leaving our rooms at Baker Street for good. Though I'd never admit it to him, I knew I'd miss him dreadfully. I dreaded living alone again, and was slightly afraid of what the long hours of solitude would do to my now dormant hunger for cocaine.

But overpowering these feelings was the conviction that I truly wanted Watson to be happy. I knew that he was overjoyed with Miss Morstan and with the prospect of spending his life with her. And indeed she was a lovely woman, quite bright herself, and more than an admirable match for my dear friend. I was quite certain that they had many happy years together ahead of them. Yet I feared the changes his leaving our shared rooms and opening a practice would bring in our own relationship.

But Watson's heartfelt words and seeing his overjoyed face when I told him my decision had relieved many of my lingering fears. Somehow I knew that our friendship would survive his marriage, and that he would find a way to balance his separate lives: that of doctor and husband, versus that of biographer and companion. He'd make time to accompany me on cases, and the biggest change would be that he would return home to his wife at their completion. What was it I'd said earlier? It was a question of friendship. That was not going to change. Watson would still be my dearest friend. And that was enough for me.