A/N: Written for challenge 002 at the mere_appendix LiveJournal community. Beta'd by the lovely med_cat. While inspired by the dark glasses that Holmes wears in the new movie, it's not a movie-based fic.
_The Secret of the Spectacles_
Dr. John Watson knew from the moment they met that Mr. Sherlock Holmes was a unique individual. Exceedingly gifted, too, though Holmes would argue that what Watson called his 'talents' were merely the result of thorough study and careful application of logic and observation. Still, Watson thought it marvellous how Holmes could seemingly absorb every possible detail from sight, sound, smell, touch -and taste and chemical experimentation, when necessary- and neatly weave together a nearly flawless account of events he did not witness.
This much Watson quickly learned about Holmes. What he could not figure out, however, was why Holmes so often wore those dark spectacles. He never left Baker Street without them unless it was nighttime or raining. This made sense, but Holmes also wore them when it was completely overcast, which made no sense at all. It was a mystery, and one Watson was determined to solve without directly questioning Holmes on the matter.
For a while Watson was inclined to believe Holmes wore them so others could not watch his eyes and discern his purpose and the direction of his thoughts, but for the fact that even those who knew him better than most--Watson included himself and a few of the Inspectors in this category--found him inscrutable regardless of what little his dark eyes usually expressed. So that was not the answer.
This little mystery remained unresolved for so long that Watson wondered if Holmes wore the spectacles just to make Watson wonder why. But even Holmes' oddest habits had reason, though Holmes always had to explain his reasoning to the baffled Watson. Then, finally, a breakthrough came as a result of a case.
Holmes had dragged Watson out of bed in the middle of the night to pursue a case brought by Inspector Gregson and which centered at one of the expansive estates on the far outskirts of London. The case itself was unremarkable, though it kept them outside of London for the entirety of the bright summer day. Due to the timing and haste of their departure, Holmes did not have his glasses, and Watson watched him surreptitiously for any sign of a difference caused by this lack. Holmes handled the case perfectly well, of course, but his expression grew pinched as the day wore on, and he had none of the exuberance that usually accompanied the swift resolution of a case.
It was late afternoon when they caught a train back to London. Holmes led the way to an empty compartment; he pulled down the windowshade and flung himself onto one of the seats, lying back with the crook of his elbow over his eyes while Watson closed the door. "What's wrong, old boy?" Watson asked, stooping to pick up Holmes' hat and dropping it onto the bent elbow before taking his own seat.
"Just a headache," Holmes said after a moment, seeming to gauge what response would provide Watson the least opportunity to pursue the matter.
Evidently he momentarily forgot that Watson was a doctor and would be professionally interested in such an answer. "Do you know what brought it on? Do you want anything for it? I have my bag here, you know."
"All I require is peace and quiet and darkness." His voice sounded tired and gruff, as if trying to dissuade Watson from continuing the conversation.
Watson would not be put off so easily. "It's a shame you left your glasses behind; I imagine they would help with reducing the light until we return home."
"I would not have developed the headache if I had brought them." It was a rare moment of honesty for him and a testament to his discomfort that he would willingly divulge such a weakness even to Watson.
Pieces of the puzzle finally fit together as Watson considered this and the other spectacle-related tidbits he'd painstakingly gathered. Other things, like the utter darkness Holmes preferred when in one his dark moods, also added to the picture until he could say with a sudden burst of understanding, "Ah, that explains it! Why didn't you tell me you are photophobic?"
"My dear Watson," Holmes said dryly, his arm still covering his eyes, "I am not afraid of light."
"Of course you aren't. But you're more sensitive to it than is typical. Has that always been the case?"
"I believe so."
Watson remained silent for the remainder of the journey home, well able to appreciate how excruciating even normal sights and sounds can be to one sensitized by a headache. And it was a bad one, too, if Holmes' pallor and involuntary flinching at every rattle of the train and then the cab were any indication. Unsurprisingly, Holmes left Watson to pay the cabbie and was halfway up the stairs by the time Watson made it in the front door. He had his face buried in the settee cushions when Watson entered the room; Watson quietly pulled the drapes closed and shut the door between their rooms so it was as dark as possible.
"Watson, I believe my case is on the mantelpiece; would you . . .?"
"Cocaine makes light sensitivity worse, you know," Watson reminded him even as he fetched the syringe case.
"Thank you, Doctor, I'm well aware of that," Holmes said, rolling over to take the case. "It is not cocaine I'm after."
Watson grudgingly admitted (to himself--he would never say such a thing aloud in Holmes' hearing) that a dose of morphine would be a reasonable remedy in the situation, and left Holmes to his peace and quiet and darkness.
It was two days before Holmes could endure Watson's company for any length of time, so Watson found other pursuits to occupy himself, primarily reading what he could find about the known causes of photophobia--so he could be watchful for any more serious developments, should they arise--and purchase a pair of dark spectacles to carry in his medical bag. Just in case.