This story was written in collabortaion with "an ounce of shag tobacco"
Most of the characters do not belong to either of us.
This story was inspired by the song "The Watchmaker's apprentice" by "The Clockwork Quartet"
Thank you for reading! We hope you enjoy, and have feeeeeeels! ;)
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Watson was woken by voices. No. It was just one voice to be precise. One single voice; mimicking and mocking itself ever louder and louder. It was the voice of a man who was as good an actor as he was adetective. Since his return from three years absence however, he was plagued by nightmares. Like some kind of lethal pestilence, they came to haunt him. What was worst for the doctor, was the fact that they were quite irregular, what made them unpredictable.
What was always the same however, was the process of those hirrible dreams. Of course Holmes had never told his friend what they were about. Not even when they finally passed the stage of friendship to become a secret couple. So it came, that John Watson lay wide awake on his mattress, on the night if December 19th in the year of 1898, waiting for the soft thump that would bring relief. The soft sound that was very well audible through the thin walls, was like a call ; as if his own name had been spoken out by his love, Sherlock Holmes, to call him and soothe his aroused, panicking spirit. Watson never dared to walk downstairs to awake him, for he knew that he would not be able to face Holmes in such a state. So when the thump came, Watson went downstairs, without putting his dressing gown on, and eventually opened the door, silent and slowly, to find Holmes, crouched beside his bed, half tangled in sheets, and his face reddened with agony and tears.
It ashamed Holmes to admit defeat in such a way. It ashamed him to need to be in the arms of another in order to feel comfort, in need of another to chase away those nagging demons. He hid his face as Watson stood at the door, sympathy plain on the doctor's features. Holmes didn't want the sympathy, he wanted company.
Watson knelt down beside his friend; completely wordless, and with the single movement he revealed Holmes' face to look deeply into his eyes.
He had tried so many things before, that he did not know what else to do, than just be there with him, and let the silence say what neither of them dared to form into words.
Holmes did not speak, he let his face tell but that didn't say much else. He moved a little closer to John so his had could rest on his head on his shoulder.
He wanted to speak. Watson wanted to say "it's alright my love, I'm here for you."
But he remained silent, for he knew how Holmes disliked such words.
"I'm sorry for waking you up again." Homes murmured as his fingers fiddled with the sheet of cotton he was tangled in.
"Oh. No. No, no, no. H-" Watson was not sure whether it was appropriate to call him by his first name, and decided against it.
"Holmes. It is quite alright. Please. Do not concern yourself about that."
"This is the third time this week. Your practice isn't going to do well if patients find you asleep in your consulting room, is it?"
Watson chuckled softly. "They have to understand. I have got a patient at home...a resident patient.
Besides, since we work together, I have gotten used to it."
Holmes sighed and nodded. "True."
"But, hey! Dread my silly old practice! What do you think of a holiday, eh? Let us just take some time off. How does that sound to you, old boy? I even let you chose the destination!"
Homes frowned. "Just below Christmas? Are you sure?"
"Very sure." Watson closed his eyes and leaded his forehead against Sherlock's, closing his eyes.
"We can spend Christmas by the seaside...
So where would you like to go?"
"What about Brighton?
Watson was, to be honest, a little bit astonished to hear Holmes suggesting the south. But then, this man never ceased to do so.
"Very well Holmes! Then Brighton it shall be."
Holmes sighed again closed his eyes. "Will you stay?"
"Yes my love. I will."Watson replied, kissing Holmes gently on the forehead.
The next morning Homes had returned to his usual behaviour; Pale, cold and well presented, he returned to the calculating machine that people attributed to him. He sat by the fire smoking a pipe, his legs splayed across the rug, his hands steepled under his chin.