One Of Those Days
It's another one of those days. One of the days when Watson's leg aches from morning to evening without any hope of reprieve from the throbbing. One of the days when he gets a mixture of the patients who waste his time with nothing wrong with them and the patients who desperately need him and he cannot do anything for them.
One of those days he loses a mother. Three small children left to the lonely city of London. Left to whoever will have them. All because he wasn't quick enough, didn't have what she needed. All because of him.
It's one of those days when there are no cabs, and Watson has to trudge back through the rain, his leg an impossibly distant pain; he feels it but it's like it isn't even part of him anymore. Some days, he doesn't mind the ache in his leg. Some days it is the mark of a soldier; a proud and worthy man.
It's one of those days though, that he just feels broken and useless.
It's one of those days when Holmes is particularly full of life. He's too preoccupied with his latest experiments to notice anything amiss when it's a day when Watson just needs his attention. Just for a minute. He just needs a voice to tell him it's all right and that he's loved.
It's one of those days he doesn't get it.
It's one of those days when his leg still aches as he falls listlessly onto the sofa, staring at the print of a novel without seeing it. Holmes announces he's going out and shan't be back 'til later. Watson's heart sinks further than he thought it could. He hadn't asked Holmes for what he wanted most.
It's clearly a day when Holmes is not as observant as he can be; he has paid little attention to Watson. He laughs, bitterly. Holmes can be overbearing sometimes, and yet when his concern is craved, he pays no attention.
Watson waits. There is nothing else for him to do. He stares at the ceiling. Stares and remembers the ceilings in the filthy hut he spent four months in. It's almost midnight before Mrs Hudson comes to order him to bed.
He limps up the stairs, lying on top of his covers, fully dressed. It's one of those days when, if he sleeps, he shall soon be woken by memories he wishes he did not have. He is not a proud man today. He is not proud of failing.
All he yearns for is some solidity. An embrace. Something.
It's one of those days Holmes comes home late.
Watson isn't asleep. He hears Holmes come in and start making a racket downstairs. In his state of apathy, Watson doesn't care.
He doesn't hear the footsteps pad softly up the stairs. He barely notices the door open silently. He feels the bedsprings behind him, though. He feels the arms steal around him. He feels, suddenly. In a rush everything surfaces and he gasps. And Holmes is there. He holds Watson against his chest. And whispers in his ear. "It's all right John. I love you. I'm here."
The clock strikes one.
It's a good day.
The Simplicity Of An Embrace
"Holmes. I knew you would come." the voice is now awfully familiar, though there is a tone to it tonight that is new to the detective. It takes him a few moments to realise that the usual gloating malice that taints Lord Blackwood's words is gone.
Holmes came at Blackwood's request because it's one of those days. One of those days when Watson doesn't want to know because he's out with Mary. It's one of those days when Holmes needs the doctor most. He just needs a voice to reassure him that the world is not so dark a place after all.
It's odd that he should think to face Blackwood will make him believe everything will be all right, especially with what Blackwood's been doing of late, but at least it gives Holmes something to think about as he departs into the London night.
It's odd that Blackwood has asked him to a house. Not his house, that's clear, but it has furniture where Holmes has been encountering his opposition in factories, prisons, streets and locations where people do not generally live.
"Yes, Blackwood. I came. What do you want?" Holmes sounds threatening, but he doesn't want a fight tonight. He's exhausted and he doesn't really know why.
"I want to talk to you. Sit down." Blackwood smiles, and Holmes sees only a hint of gloating there. Far less than usual. He refuses though, wanting to be ready and on his feet for anything Blackwood might try.
"Suit yourself. Men like us..." he began with a sigh. "We lead people, we put up fronts. Far more than is good for us." Blackwood begins to pace the room, keeping his eyes fixed intently on the detective "So much so, that when we do...slip..." this last word was right in Holmes' ear. "Nobody notices. Or if they do, they don't care."
Then came the impossible. Holmes felt himself secure in arms, more muscled than his own, one across his chest, the other around his waist, Blackwood's chin resting on his shoulder.
"I noticed though. I saw you when you went out today. I've told you before how alike we are."
Holmes could say nothing. For once in his life he had been rendered speechless. He had not deduced this as a possible conclusion.
Nevertheless, it was refreshing to be wrong. And Blackwood was finally giving him what he wanted. He turned around in the embrace, wrapping his own sinewy arms around Blackwood and pressing an ear to a steady heartbeat. It felt wrong, it felt right; it was breaking him and making him whole.
Yes. This was what he wanted.