The Rugby Ball
"Holmes, do you know what happened to my rugby ball?"
He would ask that.
"No," said Holmes.
What were the chances Watson could read the guilt of a lie on his face—and the fact that he'd stolen it?
He'd never find it, though. Holmes had made sure of that.
Sherlock had captured it one day, when he knew Watson was moving out. He'd taken it, flattened it, and hidden it on the top shelf behind his case files. Watson would never think to look there. He had the reassuringly innocent trait of looking for things in places that would normally fit them. He'd never think of searching for a flattened rugby ball. And Sherlock could easily re-inflate it later.
"I had it right here… Never mind." Watson sighed, as if resigned to his fate of being rugby ball-less. For a moment, Sherlock breathed an inward sigh of relief.
He had to have something to remember Watson by, didn't he? Since he was being abandoned.
Marriage. What did Watson need to get married for? He should stay a man about town. They'd been bachelors together. What was wrong with a little messiness, an all-male environment? Of course, there was Mrs. Hudson, the 'nanny,' as Sherlock called her, in his worst moments. But she didn't count.
Women cluttered the brain—like Irene…
Well, he'd never left Watson for Irene, and Watson shouldn't leave him for Mary. It was as simple as that. Couldn't Watson…oh, stay engaged for the next three years, at least? What was the point of rushing into something that Watson very well might want out of—with little recourse, it might be added.
Had Watson listened to any of these eminently logical arguments? No, he had not, and now Sherlock was reduced to stealing his rugby ball.
He doubted a newly, happily married man (well, perhaps happily—hopefully happily; he didn't want Watson to be unhappy, certainly…), would have time for his old friend, for explosions and exasperations, and somehow who frequently stole (borrowed) his clothes.
Perhaps Sherlock could have worked on that, could have better managed his eccentricities and flaws, and not chased his one, his only friend away. His brother Mycroft didn't count as a friend, even though they never fought. The two of them barely spoke once a twelvemonth.
But perhaps he's already lost his friend. The way Watson had been looking at him lately, as if Sherlock were the most irritating thing in his life, never mind the fact that he'd probably be the death of him, too…
Holmes rushed off for more detecting work—Watson might abandon the game, but that didn't mean Sherlock could. Besides, Watson might just come along, anyway, once he saw Holmes had forgotten his gun. Well…'forgotten' might not be the right word…
He kept half an ear open, hoping for the sound of Watson's familiar, uneven walk, the sound of his cane, his boots. But Sherlock paid little attention to anything else, barely noticed his surroundings—except in the perfunctory, cataloguing way that he noticed everything—the people he passed, the faces he glimpsed. He'd have been able to pull all the myriad details back up in an instant, if required, but for now he paid them little mind.
He was thinking about the rugby ball.
It was an old artifact, a relic from Watson's childhood, a part of Watson's life that Holmes hadn't been privy to. But, through that ball, he felt as if he'd gotten a glimpse of it. The way Watson's face lit with reminiscent glee when he handled it sometimes, or picked it up and looked at it when in a sentimental mood. It had been easy to deduce he was remembering times when he was a boy, with full mobility, and nothing to make him limp after long walks and hard days' work. When he could run and not feel pain.
For a moment, compunction pricked Sherlock's conscience, a tiny wound. Perhaps he would give it back. Surely he should not keep away any small thing that would bring joy or even momentary relief to his friend.
He thought of his own childhood, and the stark and few joys in it. Certainly he had been an odd boy, not good with other children—as he now was not good with other adults. With little to recommend his society, and much to argue against it, he'd taken his joys in his experiments, his private little worlds, from the mysteries of ants and bees to the trick of sneaking in to read Mycroft's books without earning his ire.
He didn't suppose that even Watson would have enjoyed his company as a child, for no one else seemed to—a quiet, bookish, lonely boy who would have been more apt to start quoting things about insects than engage in a spontaneous ball game.
But there was one time that stood out, one instance that made him think differently—
He lowered his shoulders, glanced quickly both ways, and ran across the street, pulling his collar high against the chill. At that moment, a wild cab took the corner and bore down on him. Holmes jumped aside, avoiding its front wheels by a mere whisker's length. The cab rumbled by. The cabbie shouted at him, shaking a fist.
Sherlock barely noticed.
He was remembering the time when he and dear Watson had both had a little too much to drink, and started kicking it around, that old rugby ball, laughing all the while, not caring that they got their hair messed, their clothes mussed, their rooms hopelessly askew. Kicking the ball back and forth, laughing as if they had indeed become children again.
Maybe he would keep it after all—just for a little while longer.