A/N: Early fic. C&C from everyone welcome, as always. Special thanks to holmes221b for reading the preliminary draft and encouragement to continue.

December 1882

On a Wednesday in mid-December, I noticed Holmes had been regarding me intently all throughout dinner, and finally, after we'd finished the meal and settled in our customary armchairs near the fire, he handed me a glass of brandy and broke the awkward silence.

"Watson, is something wrong?"

"It's nothing, truly…" I murmured.

Holmes gave me one of his patented looks. "I believe I've told you on multiple occasions—prevarication does not suit you at all, Watson…you are simply too honest. It is not nothing, not at all—I've noticed you slept badly the last two nights. I've heard you pacing on occasion when I myself had difficulty sleeping; and even if I hadn't, the shadows under your eyes are proof of your fatigue. Granted, we've only shared these quarters for two years, but surely you know that you can rely on my discretion? And I hope that you also know I would not think less of you, no matter what you tell me?"

"You mean…you cannot deduce it?" I whispered and immediately caught myself. "My apologies, that was uncalled for…"

"Well, I could if you wish me to…old memories, no doubt? Or rather, something happened at the clinic on Monday that brought those memories to the fore?" Holmes suggested gently.

"Yes," I whispered, bowing my head and blinking rapidly.

"My dear Watson," he placed my hand on my arm, "you need not be ashamed of your grief…certainly not with me."

"It is just that I feel…silly, really," I protested, trying to keep my voice steady. "It has been some years, after all…I do not know why it should trouble me so much."

"Watson, I cannot claim to know much about emotional expression, but surely, there is no time limit on grief?"

"No…more's the pity."

"Well…I don't wish to intrude upon your thoughts and feelings, but if you wish to talk to someone, I am always more than willing to return the favour. Heaven knows you've done that for me more times than I can count."

"Thank you, Holmes. Later today or tomorrow, perhaps…I must gather my own thoughts together first."

"Of course, my dear fellow."

***

I was attempting to sip brandy past the lump in my throat, trying to calm my nerves…I was deep in thought and next thing I knew, I was startled out of my reverie by Holmes's exclamation. Looking up, I saw with a strange detachment that in my abstraction I must have crushed the brandy glass, since it lay in shards in my clenched fist and blood was beginning to seep out and drip onto the carpet.

"Watson?" Holmes's voice was more anxious than I ever heard before. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," I managed to stammer. "My apologies, I must have been distracted…"

Holmes snorted. "That is the understatement of the century." He waved me off when I tried to rise. "No, no, sit still. I'll fetch your bag—it's on your desk, is it not?"

I nodded. Holmes hurried over with the bag, setting it down and dashing over to the washstand for a clean towel and a basin of water.

"Now. Do you require assistance?"

"No," I replied somewhat more calmly. "As I am right-handed, I should be able to manage adequately myself."

Holmes fell silent but watched me intently over the course of the next few minutes, as I cleaned and bound my left hand. As soon as I was finished and he put everything away, he pulled his chair closer to mine and put his hand on my right arm.

"My dear Watson…it pains me to see you so distressed. As I said, I shan't force you to speak, but I do wish I could help you. You've told me yourself on several occasions that it is not healthy to keep such feelings inside…"

"Indeed…" I muttered, raising my eyes to meet his. "Well then…you deduced correctly, of course. I had a patient suddenly die in the clinic on Monday. Holmes, he should not have died—he was only in his mid-fifties, and his youngest child is only fourteen…and it happened so suddenly, there was nothing we could do—and so close to Christmas…" I trailed off as I heard my voice tremble.

"My dear Watson…I am so sorry."

I steadied my voice with an effort and continued, "Yes…a sudden heart attack…Well, there you have it."

"I think there is something more to this, Watson…am I right?" Holmes inquired gently.

"Yes, you are…as usual," I sighed. "As I mentioned, it has been some years…I was sixteen then, home for Christmas vacation…" Much to my mortification, I felt my eyes suddenly fill with tears. I blinked them back and continued, "My father had been ill for some time but I was unaware it was so serious…he was in such good spirits that afternoon, laughing and joking with my mother that we never imagined anything untoward would happen…and then…I thought at the time that perhaps if I were a doctor, I could have done something; I would have done anything to save him."

"That was one of the reasons you went into medicine?" Holmes ventured.

"Yes," I whispered. "And as you see…"

"…Being a fully qualified physician still does not give one that power?" Holmes quietly finished my sentence.

"Yes."

"Oh Watson…I wish I could be of assistance, but surely anything I could say to you on the subject you already know."

"That my feelings of guilt are irrational? Of course I know that, and yet…"
"I truly do wish I could be of assistance," Holmes reiterated.

"You already have been, very much so," I raised my head and smiled at him. "I've never spoken of this to anyone before."

"Then I am honoured that you have allowed me into your confidence."

"Of course, Holmes; you are my closest friend, after all."

Now it seemed that Holmes was the one struggling to find words.