Set during the Granada adaptation of The Dying Detective.
Not since his army days had Watson run so hard and so fast, and never in his life had he barged into another man's home uninvited. Not since he'd been shot had his chest constricted and squeezed as he prayed to Providence that Mrs. Hudson had been wrong and it was not too late. I think he's dying. He's dying, Doctor.
No! He would not believe it. Mrs. Hudson was a caring woman, but she was no doctor. She could not know that. Watson puffed and dodged whinnying horses, grateful when staring pedestrians got out of his way. Baker Street was in sight at last.
"Oh Doctor, oh dear Mr. Holmes," she was still sobbing and holding out her arms, but Watson had no time to comfort her. He muttered a lie about things being under control and braced himself for the sight of that pale skin and eyes so darkened they were almost black.
"Did you see him?" Dear God, he sounded even worse. Holmes hadn't moved from his prostration on the couch, and his sweat was coming fast. The hair normally slicked and kept far from those all-seeing eyes was smothering his face and forehead. It was all Watson could do not to brush it back.
He swallowed all of this down as his chest squeezed harder. "Yes, he's coming." The brute. The monster. The last person in the world he would want tending to Holmes.
"Ah, you're the best of messengers." Watson couldn't manage a smile, but his heart relaxed ever so slightly. Even at his weakest and worst, Holmes could still show kindness. It seemed every time you were around him, Holmes could show you a new reason to love him. Watson was so enamored at the praise he nearly missed Holmes' next words about disappearing from the scene.
He wants me to leave? Trying not to show his hurt, Watson appealed to his logical side. "I should stay and hear his opinion, Holmes. I really should." How can I hope to treat you otherwise? Perhaps the fever had compromised his reason.
Holmes' head snapped up and he was suddenly more alert than he had been since Watson had first seen him. "The front door. It's him." Why did he sound so concerned? Just a moment ago he had been relieved. "Hide!"
What is he saying? "Hide?" Clearly his illness was getting to him. Watson thought it might be wise not to take him so seriously in this state—
"Quick, if you love me!"
Love. Love? He…he had just…did he know? Did he feel? There was no time to think. For whatever reason, Holmes needed him to hide. Somehow, doing so would prove to Holmes how much he meant to Watson. There wasn't a question. Illness or no, one thing Watson knew to be an undoubtable truth was that he trusted Sherlock Holmes. He had never failed him, ever. You won't fail me, you never did fail me. You're the best of messengers. His most treasured compliments, and he would earn them. Even if it meant standing behind these dusty drapes while a suspected murderer intruded into their home.
Mrs. Hudson's cries could still be heard as she quickly opened and closed the door for Culverton Smith. He was moving so painfully slowly Watson wanted to shake him. Could he not see how sickly Holmes looked? How much agony he was in?
"Oh, Smith, I hardly dared to hope." Watson clutched the drape. The worst of his smoking habit had never produced so pitiful a voice.
"I should think not, yet you see I am here." Damn his cold arrogance, his selfishness, his—
"It's noble." No it isn't.
"You know what is wrong with you?"
"Yes."
"You recognize the symptoms?"
"Yes, quite well."
For God's sake, I told you what was wrong with him and what his symptoms were, now do something! How could Holmes have asked him to hide like a coward and watch helplessly as Smith treated him this way? That was the sort of torture a villain should have thought up. Watson dared to peek behind the curtains at Smith standing over Holmes, still doing nothing and whining about how Holmes had treated him. Can you not put that behind you for one second and help the poor man first? If you wait much longer—
No. He would not go there. Watson would not lose Holmes again. He would not spend another two or ten or fifty years gazing at a framed note and torture himself every day and night with how he could have stopped it. This time would be different. Holmes would live and the two of them would grow old together oh God that scream he must be in so much pain why doesn't that wretched man help him and Holmes would remark how Watson must have loved him immensely given his speed in finding a place to conceal himself why did you make me hide when I could be making you feel better and Watson would say yes, yes, of course I do, I have since I realized how caring and sweet you are despite your insistence on hiding it and please do not push me away…He clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his tears.
"It doesn't matter to me if you know how Savage died. I don't see you in the witness box, quite another sort of box." What? How could he have been so foolish? Here Watson had been throwing himself a pity party and missed some of what had been transpiring right in front of him. Victor Savage hadn't died by accident? The two of them had been right? He moved as far forward as he dared.
"I put an infected mosquito to his neck while he was in an opiate stupor." Watson formed fists and tried to think where his revolver was.
"You received a parcel."
"I can't think—"
"You did. Two tacks stuck under the box."
"They were infected." Holmes sank back into the couch and Watson braced his legs to run. He didn't care if it cost him the rope, he would kill Smith with his bare hands.
"You fool. You would tangle with me and now you are finished." Watson moved to the edge of the curtain. Smith was too close to Holmes to risk tackling him just yet. "The box. Where is it?" Holmes said something Watson couldn't hear, and Smith replied, "Turn up the gas? Yes, I'll do that."
Good. It'll make killing you that much easier.
"I prefer to see you die in the light." I'll tear that smug smirk right off his face.
"There it is. Your last shred of evidence." You'll take that from these rooms over my dead body. "Any last requests?"
"A match and a cigarette would be most welcome." Watson almost laughed. Of course in his last moments, Holmes would want a smoke. Of course. He was almost sounding himself again. Watson could almost hear the snap of him lighting up.
"Three days without food and water is one thing. But to be without tobacco, I have found most irksome." Watson's knees wobbled as the realizations hit him like one brick after another. He had heard Holmes lighting up. Holmes wasn't sick. This had all been a ruse. Smith had been caught. The police were here. He was hiding to be a witness. Watson emerged at Holmes's call and gladly seized Smith by the wrist and wrested that blasted box from his evil hands.
The rest happened so fast Watson would forget it. Smith's arrest, Mrs. Hudson throwing her arms around Holmes, the inspectors leaving with a promise to take statements later, Holmes finally permitting himself a meal, and explaining his cosmetic tricks. Through all of this, Watson managed to look the picture of professionalism. Only when Mrs. Hudson said her piece about the worst tenant in London and Holmes gave that devil-may-care shrug did Watson burst.
"Well, she's right!" he shouted louder than he meant to. Holmes whirled to face him, shocked and seemingly hurt. Watson would not let that stop him. "How could you do this to us? To me?"
"As I just explained, it was necessary—"
"It was not necessary to put me through this again!" Holmes flinched at the harsh tone, and for the first time since Watson could remember, was speechless. "Don't you think once was enough?"
"Again?" Holmes abandoned his meal and stood. "What do you mean?"
Watson chuckled and shook his head. "My word. You've forgotten already." Yelling at Holmes clawed at his conscience, but Watson would have his say. "Pretending to be dead might be a fun and clever joke to you, but for me it is anything but. Twice now I thought I had lost my only friend, that I was doomed to spend the remainder of my time in this cruel world alone. Maybe you don't know how much that hurt, but I can only hope one day you do, because perhaps then you will not treat my feelings as one of your disposable tools."
Holmes said nothing. He looked as though he were attempting to solve a problem in his head, which only fueled Watson's fire. "And then—as if all of that weren't bad enough—you have the nerve to act as if you have no idea why we're upset. As if you haven't done anything to cause us grief and we're simply being unfair and overreacting. Well, if Mrs. Hudson won't say it, I will: your ability to treat us this way is by far your worst quality."
Holmes began to speak, but Watson cut him off, finding he had more to say than he had planned. "Don't you dare say that it had to be done and was the only way because neither is true. You could have told both of us what you were planning and sent Billy the page for Smith instead. You could have warned me about the note I received at Reichenbach being fake and we could have fought Moriarty together. There is another way, there is always another way, you just don't care enough about us to find it."
By this time Watson was right in Holmes' face and speaking at a higher volume than he had ever reached outside of a war zone. Never had Holmes been so still and silent, with his mouth slowly coming open. He looked, for lack of better description, vulnerable. Watson could not bear to have that tearing at his heart and making him want to soften his words, every letter of which he meant, and so he stormed to his room and slammed the door.
He should have remembered to lock it.
To Holmes' credit, he did allow Watson an hour to cool off before intruding. The latter had smoked his way through far too many cigars than he cared to admit and was now stewing in bed. As the door opened, he turned his back to it.
"Feel free to dismiss me, if you must, but as I have allowed you your say, I pray you will allow me mine."
Watson sighed. "Holmes, I told you, I do not want to hear about how 'necessary' your actions were."
"I assure you, that is not at all what I was going to say." Ah. Well, in that case, he's going to tell me that I'm being too emotional and need to be more logical like him. Suppose we'd best get that over with. Watson turned around, still glaring.
Noticing his angry eyes, Holmes turned his face to the floor. "I came to say that you were right, and I apologize. A statement I will share with Mrs. Hudson later."
Watson never would have thought any surprise could top the one he had just witnessed earlier, but yet again Holmes had proven him wrong. He tried not to show this though, for fear of weakening his position. "Glad you think so," he said coolly.
Holmes joined him on the bed, keeping a careful distance. He reminded Watson of a dog who knew it had broken a house rule and was trying to gauge its owner's mood before approaching. "I should have remembered the effect my actions had on you the last time before putting my plan into action. You can be sure I will never deceive you into thinking I'm at death's door again."
"You say that now, but when the next case comes along—"
"It will not happen, Watson. I promise. No matter who the criminal is or what the circumstances may be. Now that I know how it affects you, I can swear to you that it will not happen again."
Watson sat up, puzzlement replacing anger. "Only now you realized it would affect me?"
"Yes," he answered sincerely. "I had never thought…" He paused. "I had never had anyone in my life who cared so much."
A full minute elapsed before Watson spoke. "How can that be?"
"Hmm?"
"How can there be no one in your life who would not be devastated at the thought of a world without you in it? Surely your brother—"
Holmes laughed. "Well, he certainly wouldn't be happy, but devastated? No, no, not him. We weren't even that close as children."
Your parents then? Watson wanted to ask but didn't dare. Aside from mentioning Mycroft and his French grandmother a few times, Holmes had never, not once, spoken of his family, giving Watson the indication that it was a private matter he did not wish to talk about. To be fair, Watson had rarely spoken of his own family, but that was because they had all died and therefore there was not much to tell. Somehow he didn't think that the case for Holmes.
Observing Watson's unease, Holmes continued in a smooth voice, "You see, when you're as accustomed to the bachelor life as I am, you become quite used to thinking only of yourself. Apart from the dreadful bore of existence, another reason I have never feared dying is because until you and Mrs. Hudson came along, no one in this world would have cared a lick if I did."
He had intended the words to be soothing, to simply explain his reasoning and ensure Watson he intended no harm. They had the opposite effect. Watson trembled and hid his eyes, alarming and bewildering Holmes.
"My dear fellow, what's wrong?" Had he hurt Watson again? Was he doomed to continue unintentionally causing pain to his only friend or—"Oh!"
Those soldier arms were stronger than he expected, and Watson's sudden lunge nearly knocked him flat on his back. Had it been anyone else, Holmes would have flinched, pried their hands from the back of his neck, and grumbled over the mess on his shirt collar. With Watson, however, the whole business was surprisingly pleasant.
A few moments later, Watson clutched his arms and looked up with red eyes that tore at Holmes' heart. "Not again, Holmes. You understand? Not one more time. I can't take it."
He laced his palm into his dear friend's. "You have my word."
"I can't speak for everyone else, but…I care if you die. I care more than the English language can adequately express. And I know Mrs. Hudson does too."
The words warmed Holmes and he returned Watson's hug, resting his cheek on his head. "Thank you," he murmured in a voice so gentle only the two of them would ever hear it. "My dear Watson. Thank you." He held his head to his chest and whispered into his ear.
"You make my life well worth living."