Inspired by the quote from the recent movie: "Two brothers; not in blood, but by bond." Seeing as how I love the book series, I simply had to write this.
This is in Watson's POV. Sherlock's should be coming in... oh... a few days, if I'm lucky. A week at most.
Mary often told me that Holmes has done me more damage than my time in the army ever did. I am inclined to agree. Though she said this somewhat crossly when I came home exhausted and drunk off of adrenaline, I knew that she meant it out of jest. She admired the man just as much as I do. Holmes has made his mark on me- and Mary- and I have the various scars and memories to prove it. Though I bear this burden proudly, there have been times where I have imagined my life differently. I ask myself: What if I hadn't met the man I now call my best friend? Would I have still met Mary, only under different circumstances than those which we were entangled? Would my own life be oppressively boring without the excitement and mystery that seemed to gravitate toward Holmes? Would I be different? I could spend another lifetime asking myself these questions and more, attempting to answer them with little progress. Even if I did take the time to consider them seriously, I know that the effort would be useless; that is not what happened, and there is no use in trying to change it now. Holmes would no doubt mock me in that sly way of his, or give some philosophical quote before moving on to more important things. Though this has on occasion driven me mad, I know now that is simply his way of offering advice where it is due (or changing the topic). Now, I believe myself an equal sparring partner where words are involved, and we are equal victors in a verbal contest. Though he goes to great pains to hide this, I know he enjoys the exchanges. After being around him for so long, I have learned how to read him like a book.
I hadn't always understood him. There was a time where his moods and actions mystified me greatly, and it was pet project of mine to understand him. When we first met, Holmes seemed to be a likable enough fellow, if a bit queer; I failed to see the significance of identifying blood stains. I congratulated him nonetheless, since it seemed to be the proper thing to do, but upon getting to know him better, I found that his character ran much deeper than that. It became a sort of obsession, trying to figure out this strange character with which I lived with when I was particularly bored or feeling somewhat contemplative. It was easy to see that Holmes was a smart as a whip, active, hungry for knowledge that suited his purposes, secretive, and yet prone to fits of depression and sloth. He was a stickler for personal hygiene, and yet his rooms had a tendency to collect clutter whenever he was between jobs or when a scientific experiment took hold. The violin was also a strong point of his, for he was as talented as any professional and could improvise at will. Sometimes, I felt that he understood me far faster and more in depth during the first few weeks of our living arrangement than I gathered in several months time.
As time went on, however, I began to understand him until gradually I knew him as well as I knew myself. Holmes and I, when I looked past the outward expressions and interests, were a lot alike. We both had a sense of adventure, and perhaps a mental illness that made us think that getting tangled in murder and crime while butting heads with England's most notorious criminals was perfectly sane and healthy. There was also a fragility about him that was also echoed in me. For all his bravado, egotism, and brilliance, he needed companionship, and someone who was willing to listen without comment or scorn. We both had experienced things that we did not want to share, and sensing something dark within each other, we helped each other with those experiences. Mine, of course, were of the horrors of war; his were not so pronounced, but from careless comments I have gathered some kind of terror that comes from him being alone. His solitary existence before meeting me had been bred out of years of practice; but as soon as I agreed to be his lodging partner that old fear of loneliness overtook him once more.
We suited each other. I was his foil; a Fortinbras to his Hamlet. I didn't judge his methods and eccentrics, simply accepted him as who he was and provided support should he need it. For a time, I did wonder why he put up with me, since I was so woefully incompetent in deductive reasoning. I once considered the probability that he allowed me to come simply to feed his ego. I was, so to speak, the admiring and praising audience that he never got from the general public. This theory was also coupled with others, among which included the idea that he simply had me around because of a whim, or that he didn't want me around at all and simply put up with my presence (This viewpoint changed in later years; when we got used to each other, I was his bodyguard, and the one man he could rely on to watch his back, who wouldn't fail him at the last moment). Even now I am not entirely certain why he has still honored me with his invitations. That knowledge is strictly his, and should he ever wish to tell me, he will. I have no desire to pressure him into revealing something he has no intention of unveiling. He'll get around to it in his own time.
His habit of hiding information has, upon occasion, nearly driven me mad with confusion and frustration. Though after a crime is over it is magnificent to hear him lay out the story so simply, I daresay it would have been much safer on many occasions had he told me what he knew outright, even if the mystery and awe of the adventure faded. Yet to approach him with this concern is impossible. Holmes, for all his devotion to crime, has a taste for the dramatic and would have simply ignored me had I asked what he was looking for. I have often said that the theatre has missed a wonderful actor in Holmes, and I stand by that logic today.
I'm not completely oblivious to his methods, though. It's nearly impossible to not pick something up after such a long acquaintance, and there have been multiple occasions where he has trusted my judgment and observations enough to include my own facts in his musings and theories. I am still nothing like Holmes and never will be, but it's a comfort to know that my best friend trusts my skills while in the field. I certainly trust him enough to place my life in his hands continuously, and there is no stronger bond than that of complete and utter trust between two souls.
Holmes, if he ever read this, would most likely be scoffing at my sentimentality, yet only I would see that soft gleam in his eyes that would deny his words. No matter what he says, I know that he does not regret our relationship. If he did, our friendship would have ended years ago, and not allowed to grow. For all his logical, calculating mindset, I am pleased to say that he has come a great deal since the first moment I met him. It is true that Holmes has made me more scientific, but it is also true that I have made him more human.
Humanizing Holmes… I had once thought that it wasn't possible, that he would be a machine until whatever fate came to him. I see now that I was wrong. Looking back now, I can see the clues that I had so easily missed no doubt because of my own study of human psychology and Holmes's methods as well. Even from the beginning, he was still capable of laughter, smiles, anger, excitement, all those simple human emotions that he can never destroy, despite his wishes. Making him laugh was more difficult than making him annoyed, yet he always relaxed around me easier than he did around others. I never questioned why; he simply did. Knowing that I could at least soften those rigid barriers that he had constructed made me feel useful and mildly happy. I put forth an effort to let him know that around me, he didn't need to be rigid, calculating, and precise. I didn't need facts, only companionship, and he needed to realize that was all he needed, too. Facts could only get someone so far. Support carried them the rest of the way. And that is what I became; his support. With him, I discovered a purpose. Rather than a crippled army doctor who practiced medicine to survive, I became the right-hand man of a consulting detective, protecting himself from his enemies as well as his mind, offering help when needed. I became anything he wanted me to be. Then, same as now, I never went against his orders. Oh yes, I questioned them, and we had a glorious number of arguments about them, but I always gave in, just as he knew I would. When I wasn't his partner, I was his conscious, and when I wasn't the words of reason I was his protector. By my influence, one that I never realized I was exerting, Holmes changed. He laughs more, smiles more, feels more, loves more.
Love. Now that's a word I never included in Holmes's laundry list of traits. Conceited, yes. Brilliant, yes. Talented, observant, analytical . . . yes, yes, and yes. Loving? I surprise myself sometimes.
Though, it isn't that far-fetched of a concept. There is always the woman- Irene Adler- that has intrigued Holmes more than any member of the opposite sex, and has so captured his attention. Partly this is due to the shock of her actually outsmarting him, but also because he saw something of himself in that fair lady's personality. I wouldn't say he loves her, but he certainly admires her gumption and spirit so akin to his own. In another timeline, they would have been soul mates.
Holmes is not partial to love- when I announced my engagement to Mary, he was downright miserable and surly, though I believe it had to do more with the anticipation of boredom for a few weeks rather than my happy news- but that has not stopped him from being emotionally attached to different crimes and clients. There was the one episode with Openshaw when he unknowingly sent the young man to his death, and only the Lone Star's untimely destruction spared his targets the great pain of having Holmes as Openshaw's avenging angel. Then there was the case where he inadvertently killed Dr. Roylott, who had murdered his own stepdaughter with a swamp adder to keep her inheritance money for himself. In both these cases, he was emotionally tied to the situations at hand- one for pride, the other out of sheer disgust- but it went against his claim to be emotionally attached lest his feelings get in the way of his judgment. Wisely, I have kept this revelation to myself. Any attempt to broach the subject would have ended unpleasantly, and perhaps traumatize my friend in a way I cannot fathom. It is quite possible that Holmes has realized this himself, but I would rather let him approach this topic in his own way. Perhaps one day, when we are old and senile and roomed together in a hospital, I could ask him and get a straight answer.
And yet, as much as he denies it, Holmes does love. Not in the way that Mary and I loved each other; not in the way that parents love children, or vice versa; not in the way someone loves a favorite pet; it is a more subtle, appreciative kind of love, like the feeling an artist gets upon perfecting a painting, or a violinist upon drawing the bow across the strings. Barely recognizable, it thrums just below the surface, devoted mostly to his profession, but with a small sliver set aside for those who truly understand him.
This type of love, reserved for those who accept him and those he allows to know him, is perhaps the greatest gift anyone can receive. I am not so bold as to claim all of it, yet I know that Holmes does truly care for me. Though I know he considered me more of a burden than an asset in the early days of our acquaintance, I am now his only friend, and in some ways closer and more understanding than his brother.
Now, do not misunderstand me. Holmes cares for and appreciates Mycroft more than I can understand, for they are so very similar in intelligence and reasoning that it would be impossible for them to not get along. Mycroft is Holmes' reserve, the person he goes to when things just aren't adding up. The brothers respect each other immensely, and I have had the honor upon visiting and talking to him many times in the past. Had I been blindfolded during the conversations, I would have easily mistaken him for Holmes; it is perhaps a good thing that Mycroft did not choose the same profession as his younger brother, for if he had, there would be virtually no business at all since the brothers would have rooted out every crime ring known and unknown to mankind in Europe.
Should I dare include myself with these two? Should I dare consider that I am at least equal to Mycroft, or perhaps higher, in Holmes's affections? I do not know, but I can say this: Holmes has far surpassed my own late brother in affection, and there could be no other who I would proudly call my own blood.
Holmes has not only become my best friend, he has become my brother; not by blood, but by bond. We have been through so much that would have shattered ties between anyone else, but somehow, we became closer. When I first realized this fact, I nearly stumbled from shock (Mary, who has the honor of actually pointing this out to me, had merely laughed at my expression; though my heart still aches at the thought of those times, I am glad that she was in my life, no matter how short a period it was). After I saw the truth of the matter, however, I knew that there was no denying it. Holmes was – is- my brother.
We bonded quicker than I ever thought possible. We were opposites in nearly every way and yet . . . and yet, we worked so well together. I think he needed someone there for him, no matter how much he often says otherwise. His powers at deduction are so vast I can never hope to equal them, but I don't want to be. I am content to be on the sidelines, watching the mystery enfold, scribbling in my journal as Holmes crawls about on the floor seeing the details I can't. True, there was a time that I fancied myself catching up to Holmes, but now I know that is a useless effort. I may never know my true role in those affairs, but it was worth it nevertheless.
To think that Holmes would consider a broken, haunted army surgeon as a flatmate, let alone a best friend, still blows my mind. I am not nearly as smart as him, and yet, he prefers my company to others of his acquaintance. I am not as smart as Mycroft, nor can I give him cases like Scotland Yard. I can't cook and clean like Mrs. Hudson, nor can I give him the thrill of a chase like a criminal. I can only offer my weak assumptions and attempts and deduction, and yet when I do, I see a look in his eyes that is far fonder than those he gives any of the others.
Perhaps I underestimate myself. If Holmes hadn't wanted me to be on his cases, then I wouldn't have been there. Perhaps what he needed was companionship, or a reason to depend on someone else for a change, someone else who will be there when no one else is; one who would remind him of limits when he forgets. One who wanted to be with him for who he was, not simply used him when they needed to.
And that, I suppose, was my role. His friend, his support, his confidante, his conscious, his partner-in-crime. A brother. One who never would abandon him, even when the end was near. He knew I had his back, just like I knew he had mine. I may not be as smart, as observant, or as scientific, but that hardly mattered in the long run. He cared for my strengths. How I didn't buckle under pressure, how I could keep my cool and hold my own in a fight. The way I was deadly accurate with a pistol, even if I never shot to kill another human being. He could depend on me to be there if he needed or wanted me to accompany him, staunch and loyal to the end. This is what truly mattered to him, what he needed, and I am more than happy to give him my loyalty and friendship.
After all, isn't that what brothers do? Help each other out in trouble, stand beside them when the whole world has gone wrong, and offer advice and opinions even if it isn't wanted?
Yes. Sherlock Holmes is my brother, as I am his. And I could not think of a better honor to have.