A cup of English tea

by My name's AC

"Keep a cup of tea always warm for me. Who knows if I may return and you only have cold tea to serve me?" Watson's POV while being with Holmes on his last moments of life.

My first fanfiction ever for Sherlock Holmes, be nice.

I like very much what I've written, hope you like it as well.

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I must say it is not easy to see him lying in that bed. He does not appreciate it all, making the poor nurse go after him every five minutes as he escapes from bed. She finds him in the garden, sitting at the bench, looking around. The fresh and outside atmosphere now seems a place that he enjoys after having to be irrevocably confined to bed rest.

The dark night tones lie on the sky and the few stars that dare to be presented shyly bright up the sky. I grab my frock coat lying over at the bottom of the bed and put it on.

"I must go, my fellow friend." I tell him while picking up my cane that was leaning at the footboard.

"Why do you keep insisting in such lies, Watson?" He promptly speaks.

"I really must go. Mary needs my help; she's carrying a child if you remember well."

Holmes accommodates in bed, continuing. "And if I remember well don't you have a nanny to aid her?"

"And what about John and Isabelle?"

"The nanny, my friend." He insists. "The nanny should watch for your children as well. Besides, aren't John and Isabelle young children of six and four years of age? They do not require much care. Now," Holmes stubbornly insists in keeping me around, jumping from bed. "would you please aid me turning this bed, or shall I do it on my own?"

"Turning the bed? Why, Holmes, why?" I should know better that after all these years it's no use to ask 'why' to this man but to just simply follow after him.

"What a wasted question, my old friend." I end up putting my cane under my arm and help him turn the bed around. "To contemplate the night sky. How can I observe the sky if my back is turning at the window?"

He attempts to go back to bed but his legs fail him. I drop my cane immediately and my hand grasps his arm at the right time. His hand wraps around my forearm, tightly should I say, and he tries to recover his strengths. The fingers of his other hand are enlaced around the iron headboard and his hand discolors into a yellowish-white color. His arm muscles flex as he clenches his teeth and exhales deeply and furiously through his nose.

He's back on his feet but with a wounded pride. He dismisses the fact that he almost collapsed before my feet, but gladly didn't ignore my helping hand. I have no intent to speak to him about it. I know how much it pains my old friend to feel weak from time to time. Still, I can't stop helping him. In a somehow frantic, yet worried, act I pull the bed sheet up to his abdomen as he's adjusting in bed.

"Pull a chair and sit, Watson." He asks. "And hand me my violin too if you won't mind."

I exhale thoroughly, realizing that I won't be going home anytime soon. I remove my frock coat and throw it to his lap, trying to prove my displeasure even though I'm willing stay by his side, as always throughout these years.

"Always so gentle." He mocks me.

I look around, seeking for a chair. As I find one, I pull it closer to his bed. He gazes me as I'm about to sit. I squint and sigh, going to look for his violin.

"There you go." He's attentively looking at the outside when I reach him, handing him the violin. Still, I know he's aware of everything and everyone around him; I know I can't ever surprise him.

His eyes are still focused on the outside world framed by the window but his trembling fingers run the violin along its fingerboard.

"It has new strings."

It's as if he has eyes on the tip of his fingers. His callused and experienced hands are trained to send to his brain each and every little detail of what he feels. I'll never understand the mystery of his brain and neither will ever any doctor in the world because his intelligence over surpasses any mortal being.

"I had them replaced. Hope you don't-"

"You did well, Watson." He says finally taking his eyes off the window and looking down at the violin. "The others were old, rusty and improper to play."

He starts playing what for me appear to be random notes but for him and his brain are perfectly spaced notes that compose the lovely sound that I listen to. I just lean back on the chair and listen to him playing.

"Very humble of you in getting me a bed here in the Hospital for Veterans." Of course I don't expect it to be just a pleasant thank coming from him. I know there's something more. There's always something more when it comes to him. He stops playing for a while and eyes me, with that intriguing and teasing look. "Have you thought that maybe one day you can come to succumb in the same bed your old friend did?"

"Holmes." I growl.

I'm not sure if to be hurt or insulted. Truth is I can't be either of them. And truth also is that Holmes has always awakened in me different and dispersed feelings. The inevitable proximity you get when living under the same roof with someone and going through dangerous situations makes those weird feelings grow.

Unlike some people may believe, nothing has ever happened between us. Sure sometimes when drunk and under some psychotropic substances, combining with our domestic life, certain lines and boundaries appeared to be blurred, but we always kept our cool. We knew we weren't in control of our minds and nothing has ever happened. In fact, he'd always get a laugh afterwards.

Holmes was always an enthusiast and loved to test and taste every unknown substance to evaluate its result on a human being. I firmly believe that sometimes Holmes wasn't that diverted from his mind as he appeared to be (considering his life of various abuses Holmes was definitively stronger than me). He just always loved to poke me and test my boundaries. My patience grew immensely and so did my tolerance. I learnt that having a genius mind like his comes with a price. In his case some childishness left in him. I bore so well with it that I started aligning in his reckless, yet amusing, ideas. My mind expanded to follow his, even though I'm very far away to ever achieve his great intelligence.

"Look over there, Watson." His shaky hands raises, pointing at the window. "There are flies out there. Would you open the window?"

"Are you out of your mind? You're sick and it's too cold outside, you'll get worst in a blink of an eye."

He tells in the frailest voice that I've ever heard coming out of his mouth. "I'm already dying, John. Will it make any difference the time of my departure?"

"Yes, to me it will make difference." I assure him but he ignores, continuing to play the violin.

I did not expect him to reply back. Expressing emotions isn't something easy for him, but I do know he has them. Even though he does not verbalize them, I feel his appreciation for me. The way he welcomed me into his life was the very first proof of it. And the fact that he worries about me.

Not so long ago I had been discharged from the military when we were introduced to each other for the first time. We believed that after the necessity of solving the case our ways would part. Could I be any more wrong?

One night I'm walking home, my leg aching as if it was light up on fire. I know I'm being followed by two men but I don't worry, drowned in booze in an attempt to sooth the pain. My cane slips on the tin ice of the ground and I fall down. I'm mugged and hit hardly on the head. Right before passing out, a shadowy figure rushes past me, going after the ones who robbed me. Its morning already when I'm awake up startled upon the sound of books falling, enhanced five times worst into echoes in my aching head.

"Pardon me for awakening you." Holmes promptly speaks, putting the books back over the untidy desk.

"What uh…" Watson attempts to talk, sitting up while massaging his forehead. "what am I doing here? What happened?"

"You were mugged by two, my friend. And you were quite tipsy too. Here," Holmes makes Watson sit again and then hands him a cup of steamy coffee. "drink this. Ooh and…" The detective walks around the room, looking for something specific. However, the noise he makes trying to find that something makes Watson feel even more terrible. "Ah, here it is!" He walks to Watson with a small flask. "Have some of this as well. Sooths a hangover really soon." Watson is hesitant, looking at the flask. "Trust me; I've tried it a few times."

Holmes continues to wander around the bedroom, checking on every of his experiments. Watson smells the content of the flask and then pours a few drops of the liquid on the tip of his tongue. It doesn't appear to be lethal or harmful so he pours it in the coffee. As Holmes is busy, Watson gets up with the cup on his hand, limping and still hurting. What's over the desk draws his attention and he walks to it. He finds several papers regarding him.

"What is this?" He holds the papers, facing Holmes.

"Research."

"Research!?"

"You've intrigued me, Doctor. I took the liberty to dig a little more about you."

In Watson's head the puzzle starts making sense. "Have you been following me recently?"

"I choose not to answer-" Watson grabs the first thing he sees before his eyes, which turns out to be a stapler. He points it at Holmes and he squirms. "Alright, I did followed you-"

"Last night perhaps?"

"Last night, yes-" Watson walks to him wanting to hit him with the stapler. "but I was not the one who mugged you. In fact, I went after the two bastards who knocked you out. I got back your money and your gun, which are…" Holmes looks around his messy bedroom and pronounces. "somewhere around this bedroom!"

"What were the results of your research then? I'd like to know."

"Uhm, you're a very brilliant man, Doctor John Watson. When we solved that case together, I realized you are the only one who has understood my logic and ways of thinking. I have another case between hands and I was hoping if you could assist me on this one."

"And couldn't you come to my house and knock on the door like a normal person?"

"Ah, Watson, I'm no normal person. I don't play by the book. Yet, that does not mean that I play off the book."

"You just disobey some rules."

"Some, yes." Holmes agrees, lighting up the smoking pipe. "Most of the time just to irritate the Scotland Yard inspectors." While puffing off some smoke he leans to the desk, grabbing a paper sheet with his annotations. "What's your opinion, Watson?"

"I haven't said I was agreeing in anything."

"You don't have to. I feel the itchiness driving you insane."

It's true; he has always driven me insane. He challenged me in ways no one else's did. But we both learnt about tolerance and supporting each other, especially when it comes to addictions.

I owe so much to Holmes. For having lived with him as a friend, a partner. I'd dare to say that during the first times our roles inverted and he was the one who was my doctor. If it wasn't him showing me the excitement of a life beside military I'd probably haven't had endure it. I'd be constantly reminding myself about my leg injury and I'd sink down. Holmes molded and stimulated my brain as a master and with him I grew even more intellectually.

Mary has once said to me that she doesn't understand and isn't looking forward to understand the depths of my relationship with Holmes. She said we know each other in ways she'll never comprehend, but she assured me she's alright with it. She told me that the key to the survival of a friendship lies on the fact that only the people involved know its depth.

She also said something that intrigued me. She told me that she's my wife, the person I chose to grow old with. Yet, she claims to know that she's not my only love. Jokingly she says that she did not only marry me but married Holmes as well. She says it'd never cross her mind to break the bond I share with my old fellow.

The lovely melody that he's playing on the violin is abruptly interrupted. My train of thoughts derails.

"What's the matter?" I ask, leaning forward.

Holmes had just broken a violin string that echoed through the cold empty room. He takes a troubled and irregular breath, his eyes locked on the window.

"Holmes," I shake him. "what's wrong?"

He turns his head slowly, meeting my eyes and says. "I just broke the violin string and I'm left bored."

I swallow, playing along on his lie. "You're not going to get up and walk around, are you?"

"No."

He puts his eyes on the outside again. I sit back, troubled, wondering what happened. He does not seem alright; slow and short heavy breaths, increasingly shaking body. All symptoms that he tries to disguise.

After a while he breaks the silence. "Watson?"

"Yes?"

"You're lacking on your duties as a husband and a father. By the placement of the moon in the sky I estimate it to be 20:30. You should be home."

I roll the eyes; typical Holmes. "I recall you asking me to stay."

"I do not recall having asked such question."

"You implied it. You never speak full sentences."

"Never needed to end my reasoning; you've always understood me perfectly."

"So you are admitting that I'm only lacking my duties as husband and father because you implied me to stay here?"

I notice the trouble he has turning his head to face me. "And now I'm implying that you should go home."

We don't speak, yet we understand each other in the exchange of glances. He knows that I know something is very wrong with him. He also knows that I won't willingly leave his side. Still, I see through his eyes that he's in pain and I can't do anything about it. He wants my company as a friend, but he doesn't want me around to have to see him suffer.

I nod. That's all I can do with my left strengths. "Very well." I put on my coat and once I look for my cane I see him handing it to me. I gently take it and grab the violin as well. "I'll have it fixed."

"Good…" He nods his head as he speaks and then looks away.

I walk to the door in a slow pace with heaviness in my chest. "Take care, my friend."

"You too, Watson."

Little did I know, still somehow foreshadowed, that those would be the last words he'd say to one another. I had just got home; I had just sat with my family for dinner when we heard a knock on the door. Dr. Connerty came himself to my house. He didn't speak; I knew exactly why he was standing there. I look back; Mary gives me a sad look and a nod. I put on my coat and I'm off the house.

I find my friend serenely lying on bed, seemingly to be asleep, in the same way he was when I left. I check for his pulse even if Dr. Connerty tells me he himself had checked it too. It's not the same. I had to feel it. I had to feel… nothing… I had to know that his heart wasn't pulsing. I breathe deeply and sit on the chair that was still where I left it.

My world had just collapsed. I had just lost my friend without being capable of even easing his pain. But I know he's very strong. I feel defeated but I know he wouldn't want me to feel this way. I set my mind that I must fight it even though knowing that the first times won't be easy. And it cheers me a little the fact that he expected his own death and made me stay by his side until he knew it'd be his end; that he wanted my company. Holmes was always a step ahead. He never really ceases to impress me.

I don't mean to stay there, looking at him, quietly lying there. Not even in his sleep he was quiet or still so it bothers me to know he won't be moving or speaking.

Mary awaits me when I enter the door. Only her. The children are already sleeping and she tells she's going to head to bed as well. Before going upstairs she hands me a folded paper. It had written To John H. Watson in Holmes' calligraphy. I'm dumbfounded and once I look for Mary to seek an explanation, I'm already left alone. I unfold the sheet and read it as if Holmes was reading it to me inside my head.

Greetings my dear friend.

If you came across this letter than it only means two things. One, I'm dead and Mary did a good job hiding this from you. Two, you went through your wife's belongings, which isn't considerably wrong because, as I hear from what is the marriage concept: what's mine is yours and what's yours is mine. Either ways, I really hope Mary did well in keeping this away from you. And this leads to a third deduction, which is your conclusion: Mary and I did get along after all. You married her but I did not lose you. I didn't lose my plucky sidekick and we had many more exploits together. Mary once said to me that marrying you meant also marrying me as well. I'm very thankful to you and Mary. You got me a room in your house; you invited me to move in, accepted me into your family.

But, better this way; that our ways parted this way and I was the first to die. Do you know how many times I've jeopardized my life to keep you safe? And then I had to add Mary to the equation and then your children. I could never let anything happen to you and yours. I'm a lone wolf, have always been. That's why I've never left you in the crossroads; you had people to worry about, I do not. Only you were my concern.

I'm left with a shallow and meaningless body, so I might as well speak out what's really true. I must say I could stand in a room filled with thousands of people and I'd still feel somehow lonely. You were my only true companion. You were the one who helped me expressing feelings; you sometimes helped me see the more emotional side of the questions, something I've always avoided. I've learnt a lot from you.

Gladly I never learnt from you how betrayal feels like.

But occasionally I did felt jealous of you. Your brain didn't work like mine. You could see clearer than me. Your eyes could look everywhere and not automatically register everything. I see and hear everything. That is my curse. You were the only one who understood the complexity of my thinking cells and allowed them to escape. Sometimes I'd wish to be an illiterate beggar on the street with no conscious or logical thinking but you changed my opinion. You'd brag about me to your friends and I felt in the obligation of never disappointing you.

My dear friend, blood is thicker than water, meaning I've always looked at you as my brother and I've always cared and respected you as so. I know it was reciprocal. I've never express myself very often; I take this time to do so. It was a pleasure and an honor to ever having you by my side as a partner and a friend. You've never let me down. Even though I've never actually felt the need to call out for you because you always came, always remember for any future occasion: Come at once if convenient. If inconvenient, come all the same.

Take care my old fellow.

Sherlock Holmes.

P.S.: Keep a cup of tea always warm for me. Who knows if I may return and you only have cold tea to serve me?

From the many friends I've had along the years, none was ever more important to me than Holmes was. He was the only who made it be worth the pain of every wound. Now, probably sounding egotistical, I believe none else but me would ever deserve to be his relying partner and friend.

Foolishly I keep on pouring two cups of tea, waiting for him to come by and sit with me for a warm cup. I still believe that my friend surprises me in ways I've never been defied. Foolishly I still want to believe that like a cat he possesses innumerable lives and that my medical knowledge betrayed me; that I didn't really felt his dead pulse. I find myself wishing he'd be immortal.

As for now, for me, only one thing is certain: as long as I still pour two cups tea my foolish hope is alive.