Alive
Sherlock Holmes, residence 221B Baker Street, occupation…self-employed and proclaimed detective, dearest friend to a most prestigious doctor and his wife, and…and…and what else? What else was there, aside from the animals that took up residence in his substantial apartment? Aside from sickly sweet Nanny Hudson who lived within 221B Baker Street, as well, and who kept him fed when he overlooked such frivolous notions. But truly, what else was there aside from the goat and Mrs. Hudson?
He had no friends, and this thought became so distinctly clear now that Watson was married. Holmes had lived alone at 221B Baker Street for almost a year and a half, and the quiet was never less than it had been the first night without Watson hobbling about with his cane. It had been several months since the death of James Moriarty, as well, and only twice each week had Watson arrived at 221B Baker Street in hopes that Holmes's gift meant what he hoped it had. That Holmes was still alive.
Was he truly, though? Holmes puffed idly at his pipe, twirling his crystal glass half-full of the amber liquid that hadn't been touched in oh so very long. Brandy…something different from his usual menu of medical liquids that Watson left about the house upon his departure. However, he had been out of different experiments as of late, nor had he the desire to create any. It was just not as cultivating as it had been in the past. There were no new cases to work on, and Holmes had not the eagerness to seek them out.
It was a Tuesday, and Watson most likely would be stopping by within the hour for his biweekly check. Holmes half thought he should move and disguise himself somewhere in his room, or better yet…get out of the house. If he were to keep this charade up for much longer, he would have to abandon his reclusive hiding spot to keep Watson from knowing the truth.
It was for the better, old boy! If Holmes was not around, then Watson would not be put in danger on one of their cases. If Holmes was not pestering him for his assistance, Mary could have the husband she'd wanted, and Watson could have the live he'd craved. Holmes was the only thing that stood between Mary and Watson having the life that Holmes had never wanted. He knew, though, that if he poised one case more to Watson, Watson would be unable to turn him down. And that was precisely why Holmes had kept himself a secret from Watson. He should never have given him the clue that he was, in fact, alive in the first place. That may have been the only memory that Holmes wished to repress.
Even without cases and adventures, Watson was still consumed with the prospect that Holmes still lived. How could Holmes do that to his best friend? How could Holmes take everything that Watson had ever wanted away from him merely because he needed and relied on his old partner? He couldn't do that, not anymore.
It was the simple realization that he had had feelings for Doctor John Watson that extended passed that of a working partnership. That was why Holmes hid himself away and prevented himself from rushing to Watson at the prospect of solving the mass murders in Suffolk or the grizzly, unusual case of the suicide in Parliament. Holmes believed that, if he were in Watson's presence even once more, he would never be able to let Watson return to his newly obtained run-of-the-mill life with Mary.
He had to protect Watson the way he had from the beginning, only now his most trying adversary was himself. Surely it would not just destroy Watson to discover the emotions that Holmes had felt, and for him no less, after so long of worrying that Holmes even breathed the air. Mrs. Hudson had been so wonderful as to go along with Holmes's game, to deny seeing him to Watson when he inquired. She agreed, of course, that Watson was better off without him, though she denied the thought of letting someone else move into 221B Baker Street. Holmes was most assured that Mrs. Hudson did, in fact, adore his presence regardless of her constant denial.
"You selfish, self-deprecating, loathsome, ignorant, bastard!" John Watson's voice cut through the air like a dagger through paper, and Holmes startled so hard in his chair he dropped his glass of brandy and nearly swallowed his pipe. Eyes wide, they flicked up and met Watson's. He'd been caught; he'd been so lost in his thoughts that he'd completely put it out of his mind that he needed to move.
"Do you have no clue as to the torture you've put me through for the last six months?" Watson continued, his normally blue eyes a stark gray. "I've checked our old stomping grounds twice a week every week without fail, hoping that somehow I would find any clue that you had not died! Mary thinks I've gone completely bonkers in my search for you! My practice has suffered, my marriage has suffered, my friendships are disintegrating…all because I cannot give up the thought that Moriarty did not kill my best friend!"
Holmes swallowed, his fingers trembling ever so slightly as he noticed the lack of care Watson put into shaving along his jaw, or the several buttons unbuttoned down the front of his shirt. He had been falling apart all this time and Holmes hadn't paid a bit of attention. He'd been too focused on keeping himself away from Watson that he hadn't realized that Watson was falling to shambles. HomHfadsjf
"Do you have nothing to say for yourself? No smart-witted comment? No chiding scold of my behavior? Nothing? You'll just sit there and stare at me like the bastard you are?" Watson spat, anger seeping through his gaze and his every word. It wasn't until he'd slammed his fist along Holmes's jaw that the detective finally spoke.
"Must you always resort to violence, Watson?" He snapped, throwing himself from the chair and into Watson. "Do you not understand that I did it for your own good? That I stayed away from you, though I let you know I'd lived, so that you could be happy? Did you never consider I was staying away from you to give you the life you'd told me you'd wanted so desperately?" He snapped back, shoving at Watson's shoulders until the other man met the wall with his back.
Watson's eyes flashed back and forth between the other man's, his own gaze completely disbelieving of what his ears were hearing. "You have gone mad! You selfish ignoramus!" Watson caught his bearings once more and caught Holmes with his under hook, sending the other man back into his chair. "How dare you assume what you know is best for me! How dare you think that I could actually be happy without you in my life! How dare you believe that hiding away from me…that..."
Holmes was stunned at the tears he saw building up in the doctor's eyes. "Watson…?" He was unable to find the words he needed, though he stood and reached to squeeze the other man's shoulder. But all too suddenly there were strong arms about his chest and Watson was pressed into his arms in a surprise embrace. "Dear Watson…forgive me for my ignorance…"
"I'll never forgive you, you bastard," Watson panted quietly, trying to hide the tears that continuously flooded his eyes. "I thought you were dead…and I was so angry that Moriarty was dead because I wanted to kill him myself for killing you—and don't tell me how illogical I am! You are still the bastard who thought he could make me happy by abandoning me!"
Holmes was unsure of what to do or say at the current moment, and he merely embraced the other man and let his emotions run their course. "I did not willingly abandon you, Watson…I merely tried to give you what you'd told me you'd wanted. How could you have that with Mary?"
Watson shook his head and shoved Holmes back, turning and facing away from the detective. "I cannot imagine that the great Sherlock Holmes actually thought of someone else's happiness before his own. You must be joking."
Holmes wrung his hands and moved back to the table beside his arm chair, pouring himself another glassful of brandy. "He was looking out for his dear friend by protecting him from himself." He said, and he swallowed almost the entire glass in several sips before releasing a puff of air and blowing the alcohol off.
"From himself? Then pray tell me, Holmes, what exactly you thought you had to protect me from!" Watson snapped again, wheeling around so fast his leg protested and he leaned more onto his cane. He saw the look of anguish on Holmes's face, and it made his own anger seep away. "You…you cannot mean that you…"
"That I what, Watson?" Holmes repeated, filling his glass halfway again. "That I thought it best to stay away from you to keep myself from suggesting you leave Mary and return here? That I thought it was more important to keep you at a distance and not close to me, where I wish I could greet you for breakfast in the morning and brandy and cigars after dinner each night? Or to wake you in the middle of the evening and usher you out the door and into the streets of London for a case?"
"If you thought that I truly could live a life of muffins and operas at The Globe after a day of treating the common cold, you are incredibly mistaken, Holmes." Watson said, looking up at Holmes as he stood, his head slightly lowered.
"I knew that you would join with me again, Watson, if I asked you to. But I also had derived after countless nights of contemplating every emotion I'd suddenly started feeling and coming to my conclusion. And my conclusion is as follows," Holmes sat down his brandy glass and reached for his pipe that he'd left on the table. He lit it again and rested it between his teeth. "If I were to ask you one final time to go once more unto the breach with me, I would not be able to let you go so simply back to Mrs. Watson. Frankly, Watson, I am unable to separate our relationship into business and friendship, and speaking rather candidly, I do not want to. I know that what I seek and feel is completely forbidden by English law, but that has never once stopped us before. And you, good doctor, should be able to deduce what exactly I speak of."
Watson stared at him incredulously, and he shook his head some. "You are not serious, Holmes," he said, and he chuckled, moving to the armchair that sat across from Holmes's. "You are actually telling me that you have kept away all this time merely because you are experiencing those kind of feelings for me?" He was shocked when Holmes gave a stern nod. "You are actually telling me that you want more than just a partnership, but an actual relationship?" Again, the same nod. "For Christ's sake, man! It is simply impossible!"
"Do you not believe that I know that, Watson! I have spent the last months mulling the same blasted thought over and over in my mind, wondering exactly how I could pick it up and go on without you at my side! And I have not been able to come to a decision that does not involve you!" Holmes flopped himself down into his chair and puffed profusely on his pipe. This was most assuredly not how Holmes had planned his meeting Watson to go.
"You've begun drinking my brandy. Out of formaldehyde?" Watson quipped, and a long pregnant pause filled the room. Holmes was staring at him, and Watson returned the gaze. They sat like that for a good few minutes before Watson heaved himself to his feet. "You are a bloody fool and a bastard," he said, and he stood before Holmes, and when Holmes stood, he stared him in the eye. "To think that I would be happy without being at your side."
Holmes stared at him quietly and removed his pipe from his mouth. He closed the space between them and embraced the other man with an arm about his shoulders. "Forgive me for lying to you, dear Watson." He whispered to him, and he felt Watson's lips press a light peck to his jaw.
"Just remember, Holmes, that there are many things you will need to protect me from on the future cases we take," the doctor chuckled, and he stepped back to see the stunned look on Holmes's face. "But you will never have to protect me from yourself."
The End