"Put me down," Holmes said, but it ran together as one word. Watson rolled his eyes as he let Holmes tumble on the couch, groggy and heavy from the alcohol and late nights. Watson tugged at the blanket Holmes was lying on as Holmes tossed and turned, grumbling nonsense at Watson. Watson threw the blanket over Holmes.
"Why do you make me do this?" He asked, moving to the light to turn it off. Holmes groaned.
"You don't mind."
"How would you know I don't mind? You never even remember that I'm the one that took you home. The next morning, it's all a blur." Watson shut the blinds, letting them go with an angry snap.
"I do," Holmes said into his pillow.
"You do what?" Watson asked, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was exhausted it was two in the morning, and all he wanted to do was go home. He had already told Mary that he wouldn't be back—he'd be staying with Holmes to make sure he was all right. And then he turned around and left, before he could see Mary's sunken shoulders and the light go out of her eyes. He shut the door before he could see her disappointment. It wasn't fair that he made her feel like that, so he just tried not to think about it.
Because the truth was, some deep part of Watson liked to do this for Holmes. He liked being needed by the country's greatest detective. An intelligent man, an insanely brilliant man. He liked these late, drunken nights almost better than he liked sleeping peacefully by Mary's side.
No.
No, he didn't say that.
Watson tried to shut the thought out, to shoo it out the window, into the night, whisking away in the breeze, never to come near him again. But the window was shut and the blinds were down, and that was all Watson could think about as he looked at Holmes.
"I remember," Holmes finally said. "I remember that you don't mind doing this." And he rolled over, and seconds later, he was snoring.
And John Watson was silent.
Silence.
This is how Watson has been living his entire life. He responded with silence when he was a senior in high school and his father asked why Watson hadn't ever had a girlfriend. He responded with silence seeing that mean glint in his father's eye, knowing that his father was after something more. He responded with obedient silence the first time a girl offered to take him back to her apartment, fearing that if he didn't take the opportunity, there was something wrong with him. Like it was some disease. He responded with silence the morning after, as he lay in her bed, feeling exposed and ashamed, knowing that no woman, even as beautiful as her, could ever make him happy.
He responded with silence when Mary took him out dancing for the first time. He watched her dance, so free, so gorgeous, so confident. There was an ache deep in his heart that wanted to want her. An ache so powerful that it propelled him to grab her waist and kiss her fiercely, their lips pressed so hard together and Watson's hands tight on her waist. If he didn't kiss her hard enough, deep enough, passionately enough, he would fall. That night, he clung to Mary, to her hips, to her soft, smooth hands, to her sea-blue eyes, trying to keep from falling.
When Mary asked him, one year later, if he ever had any doubts about their relationship, he responded with silence.
When Holmes and Irene began their relationship, he responded with silence.
And that was his biggest regret.
Watson watched Holmes for one last moment before forcing himself to turn around and head back to his room. Before he turned off the light, he looked at himself in the mirror.
Silence.
And the light went out.