Seldom Said
"Watson," Sherlock Holmes turned to his best friend and trusted companion late one cold winter's evening. Mrs Hudson had locked up and gone to bed hours ago, but the two men still sat, silent and content in each other's company – the last embers of the slowly dying fire now fizzling in the hearth.
Watson put down his paper and turned to his friend. It had been a quiet few weeks for the two, with little or no sign of any new client who might bring the gift of a promising new case to their door, and this was the first word Holmes had spoken to his friend in the past hours.
Outside a few stray flakes of snow drifted past the window pane, eclipsed by a thick smog on the horizon – and this black landscape outside certainly seemed to reflect the dark atmosphere within 221B Watson thought sadly to himself as he observed his friend. Holmes' expression was set stony and grave – a clear indication that he was in the grip of one of the black moods which were known to take him during the more quiet periods, between cases.
Without the lure of a fresh case to keep him occupied Sherlock Holmes had quickly descended into its dark depths, allowing himself to descend into an abyss of melancholy – and had quickly returned to his old dependence upon the seven percent solution in order to avoid the threat of an even deeper depression. This was something which Watson was deeply opposed to, but something he had long ago realised he could do little about – except for advise his friend on such matters.
He worried for his friend deeply during these dark times, which seemed to snuff out his mental capacities and render him next to useless for the duration that such a mood lasted. But Watson had learnt over time that it was better to allow his friend's condition take its natural course, after which he was almost certain to rally himself, and return to his usual sharp witted, and vibrant self.
"What is it Holmes?" He smiled as he turned to his friend – folding the paper and placing it neatly down upon his lap, as he waited for him to continue. Sherlock Holmes looked back at him with sad, haunted eyes. The detective folded both his bony legs up underneath him to sit cross legged within the seat of his chair.
"You know," He continued after a moment's deep contemplation, "I don't think I tell you quite often enough how good it is to have you around." He sighed.
"What do you mean Holmes?" Watson frowned, quite taken aback by his friend's sudden and uncharacteristic display of emotion.
"Well." Holmes smiled sadly. "I don't think I make it known to you quite often enough just how much your companionship these past few years has meant to me Watson."
"And yours to me my friend." Watson responded, but Holmes quickly raised one pale and bony hand in order to stifle the Doctor's words – a clear indication that he hadn't yet finished – and Watson smothered any further words he might have been about to express, giving his friend the chance to continue.
"I am well aware that I am not an easy man to live with." Sherlock Holmes explained. "The hours I keep and the nature of my work has made it difficult over the years for me to maintain what you might call a 'friendship' before, and to any great degree. Relationships need to be worked at you see, and I confess that I only have time for the work.
I will admit that when I was first introduced to you all those years ago I was sceptical of you too my dear friend, I didn't expect you to last very long. People are fickle by their very nature, they love to surround themselves with what they deem as brilliance, but they don't have anything in the way of staying power. Perhaps it is quite simply that brilliance which entices them, like a tiny moth is drawn to a burning flame, but they have not enough interest in the person behind the persona to compel them to stay.
I have done my best to divorce myself from people for most of my life Watson, since a child I have alienated myself, unnerving people rather than impressing them with my deductions. I didn't mind, I've always been very content in my own company – but I can't deny that sometimes it is rather nice on nights like this to be able to look up and see another human body sitting opposite. It is sometimes nice to sit in silence with a good friend by one's side. I have grown accustomed to silence Watson, but it wasn't one born of contentment."
Watson looked at his friend, surprised by the depth of emotion in his words, and deeply touched by their meaning. It was indeed true that Sherlock Holmes didn't express the true depth of his emotions very often, he was after all a deeply personal man, and the most private of private individuals Watson had ever met – but when he did the sentiment was very much appreciated.
The corners of Holmes' lips curled into a slight smile for a fleeting moment before it was snuffed out, like a flickering candle, and the grave and stony set expression of before returned.
Holmes went back to his deep contemplation, and Watson returned to reading his paper – both men's tempers somewhat lifted for what had transpired between them that evening.