The dawn of the new century was more than just that for Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson. The early morning of January 1, 1900, brought them their one-hundredth case together, one that would test their friendship more than any other, though they were unaware of it. Watson thought the landmark worthy of celebration.
"Come along, Holmes, don't you think we should at least pop a cork?" Watson asked with a slight whine in his voice. "One hundred cases! It's more than I ever dreamed we should have the pleasure of experiencing."
"Perhaps afterward, as it will technically be ninety-nine cases until I have solved it," Holmes said. "And I assure you, the case of Silver-tongue Smith is hardly a celebratory matter. The man is a danger rivaling that of the other Smith we have brought to justice."
Watson shook his head and gestured to the daily papers, which had been carelessly discarded on the floor, much to his and Mrs. Hudson's annoyance. "I have read up on this Silver-tongue fellow, and he seems to me no more than a common conman. Inspector Lestrade himself said that at most he'll get two years for theft."
"Oh, Watson." Holmes slowly sank into his favorite chair, setting aside his pipe. "No, no, no. Silver-tongue is far more than a thief, though at present only I am aware of the fact since he is very careful to leave no proof of his involvement in crimes. To put it simply, he has an incredible talent for getting people to do what he wants."
Watson took a puff on his own pipe. "And what talent is that? Placing a pistol to their heads?"
"This is no laughing matter," Holmes rebuked, and Watson frowned, affronted but listening more intently. "Watson, do you remember the serpent from the book of Genesis?"
Considering Holmes's disdain for religion and spirituality, it always amazed Watson when he was able to remember biblical tales offhand. He himself hadn't opened a Bible or attended church in years and remembered little from his upbringing. Still, he hadn't forgotten the story of Eve and the serpent and said so.
"Silver-tongue Smith is just like that creature," Holmes said, the lines in his face drawing tight. "He gets into people's minds, worms his way into their hearts, and convinces them to do things they would never do under normal circumstances—all without ever resorting to threats or blackmail. He can make the most ludicrous statement sound like pure logic and reason, and in doing so has conned and scammed people out of thousands of pounds, all of their possessions, and sometimes even their homes. I have reason to believe that he was behind several murders and suicides as well." Holmes shut his eyes. "The man is a master manipulator."
He certainly sounded dreadful, but still, Watson found the notion difficult to believe. "How can one man possibly be so persuasive? Surely someone sees through his sales tactics."
"He's not a salesman, Watson," Holmes said. "His powers are eerily similar to mine. Silver-tongue Smith has an uncanny ability to read people, to know what they want and need and fear. He can learn all about you from a short conversation and will not hesitate to use this knowledge in his favor. Allow me to give you an example."
Holmes began to divulge an event that the police had informed him of the week before, which had indeed ended tragically for Mrs. May Withers and profitably for Mr. Silver-tongue Smith.
Though she had been lugging the milk pails to and from the barn every morning since dear Albert died, the task hadn't gotten any easier. Every day she could feel her age, and she often had to stop and pant for a few moments once inside to regain her breath while sweat drenched her face. Thus, it was a welcome relief when a kind-looking gentleman passing by offered to relieve her by bringing them in himself.
"'Tis a pleasure to help a lovely lady like yourself," he insisted. Mrs. Withers blushed. She couldn't think about men yet, it was far too soon, but it was wonderful to have someone around again. Five weeks was a long time when one had only animals for company.
"Thank you so much. Please, come in and have some tea." He gratefully accepted. As she served him a cup, she asked what brought him here. "Not many folks come by this neck of the woods."
"Oh, I just love the country, and the fewer folks, the better!" He laughed. "Unless of course, they happen to be both sweet and beautiful, but that is indeed a rarity," he said, winking at her. Mrs. Withers couldn't remember the last time she'd smiled like this.
"Well, there used to be more folks around here," she said, her smile gone. "But they've all either passed on or moved away." She shook her head. "My husband and I used to have such good times with our neighbors. Dinners and laughing until late in the evening, helping each other with our chores and shopping. I do miss it."
The man's eyebrows rose. "So you're all alone out here, then?" He turned his head to examine the house. "All alone in this big, cozy farmhouse, with no one around for miles?"
"Unfortunately." She blinked, trying not to cry for the umpteenth time. "I can manage most of the farm on my own, but it does get difficult. The one bright spot is that I've finally saved up enough to hire help." She cheered a little at this. "I can hardly wait to do so, it'll be such a load off my old back and some company too. I think I want the company more than anything." She could have kicked herself. Such a thing for a recently widowed lady of her age to say to a strange man! And a much younger man, too. Going so long without conversation had loosened her tongue far too much.
"Oh my dear, if it's company you want, I am your man!" He bowed his head. "Please, say the word, and I will gladly do anything I can to be of service. Perhaps I could find you that hired help?"
Mrs. Withers put a trembling hand to her chest. The man must have been sent by the good Lord himself. "Sir, you don't know what that means to me." She brushed away her tears. "But as generous as that is, I couldn't—"
"Of course you could!" he insisted. "My dear lady, I am here to serve. I understand your pain perfectly. In fact, I lost my mother a few weeks ago…" He shut his eyes, and Mrs. Withers rushed to issue apologies as he appeared to choke back tears. "No, no, it's all right. You just remind me so much of her, and I believe she would be proud of me for helping you. Please, I beg of you, tell me the most difficult chore you have, and upon my life, I will see that it is done."
When she could speak and had finished thanking him, Mrs. Withers admitted, "Well, aside from carrying the milk pails, I would say the most difficult task is going into town and buying supplies. Food for the animals and myself, fabric for my dresses since I'm always ripping and soiling them with farm work. And then, of course, I have to get the milk and eggs into town so I can sell them. I can't afford to spill so much as a drop of milk or break so much as a single egg. The trip takes two whole days since there's no train out here. The only way to get there is by hitching up the horses to the buggy, and I'm not a terribly good driver. With my husband around, it was all right because he could go and I could stay here and keep the cows fed and milked. But now I don't know how I'm going to manage."
The man took her hands in his. "Say no more. I'd be more than happy to go into town for you, I was heading that way anyhow. Let me help you with the labor today, and then tomorrow I can leave for town so I can be there when the market reopens on Monday. I'm excellent with horses."
Mrs. Withers shook her head with a smile. "I can't thank you enough, Mr.—"
"Johnson," he said. "Isaac Johnson. And it's my pleasure."
Mrs. Withers got to know Isaac Johnson quite well. He helped her tend the fields, take the animals out to pasture, muck the stalls, and do all of the chores that exhausted her on a daily basis, chatting her up the whole time. She learned that he was fresh out of university and taking some time off to explore the countryside before starting his new job in Manchester. She learned that his parents had both died of terrible illnesses and that as a child he had raised five kittens. She didn't know what made her happier, the help or the conversation. Every moment she spent with him furthered her belief that he was the kindest man she had ever known.
The next morning, she gave him her milk pails, her egg baskets, her horses, her buggy, and all of her savings. "I'll be back as soon as humanly possible," he assured her. "At which time I'll have your hired man with me, and you'll need only worry about the household tasks a lady should." She thanked him, they waved to each other, and he was off.
Four days later, Mrs. Wither's eyes rarely left the window. So many times, she wandered outside to look for Isaac Johnson, straining to see her horses carrying him back to her. She waited and waited, and when he did not appear, she was sick with worry, hoping to God that he had only been delayed somehow and that everything was all right. Another day passed, and another. Finally, she went to the police in tears to inquire if they had heard any news of the kind and gentle man known as Isaac Johnson. They told her they had never heard of such a person and as she gave them his description, their faces were grim.
A quick investigation revealed that there was no such person as Isaac Johnson and that her description of him matched exactly that of the notorious Silver-tongue Smith. He had not been seen at any of the markets near Mrs. Withers' home, but he had been seen selling horses just like Mrs. Withers' in another city. She sank to her knees and sobbed.
"I can't believe how easily he was able to trick me," she said when she could breathe long enough to speak. "Such a fool, I gave him everything. My horses, my buggy, my milk, my eggs, and all of my money." The officers gave her their condolences, and she begged them not to give up catching him. "I have no way of getting into town now, and my animals and I are running out of food," she said. "If you can't track him down and get him to return my belongings, I don't know what I'll do!"
Watson could think of nothing to say to this dreadful tale other than to curse Silver-tongue's name. I should like nothing more than to first bash the man's head in and second force him to pay back poor Mrs. Withers a hundredfold. He had often shuddered at the idea of what would have become of society had Holmes turned his abilities to the villainous rather than the heroic. For years he had assumed that Prof. James Moriarty would be the closest he would ever come to seeing such a prospect in action. He had never been so sorry to be wrong.
"How do you propose to catch him?" he asked Holmes. Watson wasted no time in adding, "Whatever you need, you of course know that you can count on me for all of it."
Those words brought a warm smile to Holmes' face, as they always did. "It pleases me to no end to know that my Watson is always willing to join me on these endeavors." He resumed seriousness once more. "Here is what I have in mind."
The next three weeks were grueling, long, exhaustive, and full of cat-and-mouse between Silver-tongue Smith and his pursuers. Only Moriarty had managed to give Sherlock Holmes the slip more times, and both Holmes and Watson were beginning to despair. The police had long given up hope (though officially they were still searching, of course). Even worse, whenever a tricky problem and slippery villain came along, Holmes had no qualms in sacrificing his health to bring both to a satisfying end.
Watson observed with worry the red vein-like lines overtaking his dear friend's irises as the man started his third all-nighter. Holmes' stomach had been protesting all day at being deprived of proper sustenance, and his constant swallowing told Watson he had not consumed any water either. Often after cases like these, Holmes would fall ill and need tending for days if not weeks. Yet no matter how many times it happened, Watson's pleas for him to take care of himself went ignored.
"Holmes," he sighed. "Must you do this to yourself? If we were to chase after Smith tomorrow, I doubt you'd be strong enough to make it around the corner."
"Watson," Holmes sighed back. "Must you have no faith in me? Must you presume to know my body better than I do?"
Watson rose from his chair, throwing the daily papers to the floor. "You're not the only one who can draw conclusions based on data. I have seen you collapse or fall ill after every case of this variety and have nursed you back to health myself because you would not listen to me. Given this evidence, I am prone to wonder why you would allow such an inevitable outcome again when it is unnecessary."
Holmes pushed his hair out of his bloodshot eyes. Neglecting his personal grooming was by far the most alarming indicator of his overtaxing himself. "I must think, Watson, which a full stomach and a sleeping mind will not allow to the necessary capacity. And if bringing down Silver-tongue must be done at the cost of my health, it's a price I shall happily pay!" He returned to his notes and test tubes before Watson could open his mouth.
Furious and frustrated, Watson stormed up the stairs. Does he think I don't want to catch the scoundrel too? Easy for him not to care about getting sick; he won't be the one sitting by a bedside all night and taking vitals every several hours, worrying all the while. It will fall on me as always. But he could not care less how I feel.
"Hurry, Watson! Don't let him get away!"
The day was not a good one for a chase. Rain was falling, wind was lashing hard enough to push a man backward, and puddles created crowds in the streets as people questioned whether to try and hop over or hope that it wasn't as deep as it looked. Silver-tongue's greatest strength after persuading people was disappearing into a crowd, and Watson was hard-pressed not to lose him in this madness.
His blood was pumping, his breath coming hard. Normally this was Watson's favorite part of any case, the final act of bringing a villain to justice by hook or by crook. However, it was much more thrilling when he wasn't being assaulted by Mother Nature and Holmes was by his side. Though Watson was faster and in better shape, Holmes was younger and had longer legs, so their speed was often matched. But not when he's let his body descend into a sick and tired mess, Watson thought with an angry glare. Having no hope of keeping up, Holmes had been left behind gasping for breath seven streets ago.
I told him this would happen. Watson would have shouted the words had he not been so short on breath. I bloody told him he was robbing himself of necessary strength and stamina and he wouldn't listen. Now it falls me to keep Smith from escaping. Another corner, and Watson was beginning to feel his age. Though he loathed to admit it, he was getting too old for this level of exertion. Someday soon, he knew he would need to stop.
"But not today!" he said aloud, his spite adding energy. Silver-tongue Smith looked back, and panic morphed his face just enough to motivate Watson for one last push. He caught hold of the man's coattail and brought him down with a tackle. The fact that Silver-tongue was easily pinned with a tactic Watson had learned as a private proved he was unaccustomed to fighting with weapons other than words. He must have known there was no escape for him now, for he lay still under Watson's chokehold, face down in the drenched, hard cobble street until Holmes and the police arrived.
As it turned out, however, Watson's task as criminal sitter was not over when they reached the station. Holmes and the police had parted ways some time ago over a dispute in which direction the investigation should take. That meant Holmes was now tasked with bringing them up to speed on everything he had learned since.
Silver-tongue had come surprisingly quietly and was now sitting in his cell with his head bowed and his hands cuffed while Watson stood outside. The only constable on guard was a few cells down. Scotland Yard was short-staffed due to the weather, and Captain John Watson had been drafted to help.
Here was the perfect opportunity for the master manipulator to make his move.
The human emotion that was easiest to read on people was love. Silver-tongue (who thought the nickname most flattering) could tell a pair of friends from a pair of lovers and a recently widowed woman from a married one as easily as ordinary folk could tell blue from brown. He had never yet been wrong.
The first time he had seen Sherlock Holmes and John Watson together, everything about their movements, their expressions, and the way they spoke to each other said lovers. A few moments later, however, he concluded that though the feeling was mutual, neither man was aware of it.
I had hoped to evade them, but since that plan has failed, I shall make use of the data. Always good to know your enemies in case of an emergency. If this worked, he could weaken them. Or rather, break them.
"You and your friend are truly a remarkable team, Doctor."
Watson turned around with a suspicious look. He seemed to deliberate whether to accept the compliment before giving a curt "Thank you."
Silver-tongue smiled slightly with a shrug. "Well, I suppose it's not entirely accurate to say you're a team. More like you're his assistant."
Oh, Watson didn't like that. "I beg your pardon?"
Keep the tone light, casual. Whenever someone had been warned about Silver-tongue, it was always best to sound like most of what he said could be taken as a joke. If he sounded the least bit persuasive or urgent, Watson would figure it out. "Well, of course, you would know better than myself," he said. "But from where I'm sitting it seems like he gives the orders and you follow them. I assume you're hired?"
Watson shoved his hands into his pockets and straightened his stance. Silver-tongue nearly giggled. They always do that when they want to look tougher.
"You could not be more wrong," he said, though his voice told Silver-tongue otherwise. "Sherlock Holmes is my close friend, and I work with him of my own free will. We do what we do for the good of society and have never been paid."
"Never?" Silver-tongue let his mouth fall open in pretend shock. "I could have sworn I read about him accepting a handsome fee for solving that king's case a while back."
"Well—yes, he did receive payment for that," Watson admitted. "There have been rare exceptions where a client wished to show their gratitude and had the means to do so."
Here was his chance. "I see. And you got half, then?"
"Half?"
Silver-tongue nodded. "You know, half the money?"
Watson's silence spoke more than any words could have. I've got him now, Silver-tongue thought with that familiar pleasure. "You did half the work, was there every step of the way. I assume he gave you half the reward?"
"It…never occurred to me to ask," Watson said as if realizing it for the first time. Probably was, the poor old codger. Silver-tongue knew without having to ask that Holmes had not offered any of the reward to Watson either.
Watson shook his head, likely trying to reinstate his loyalty. "Still, I bear no grudge."
Lying. He's thinking of how he could have paid his debts with that money.
"After all, Holmes does the very difficult parts."
Resorting to half-truths.
"He has solved plenty of cases without me, but I could never hope to get very far on one without him," Watson continues. "Therefore, it makes sense that he should be the one to receive a reward, which, as I said, is a rare occurrence. He insists on not even getting credit for the work he does."
Holmes was a lucky man indeed. Most people would have seriously questioned the nature of such a friendship by now. "May I ask you something, Doctor?"
Watson glanced to his right and left, evidently hoping Holmes or an inspector would come back. He sighed. "I suppose."
"Has your friend ever thanked you for all of your contributions?" He inched forward on the bench. These cuffs were terribly uncomfortable, but they'd be off soon if he kept his patience. Prison wards were some of the easiest people to read.
Watson seemed shocked by the question, so Smith followed it up. "Perhaps it's none of my business, but I certainly heard him thank the police force, despite their work being significantly less helpful and time-consuming. Hell, those buggers get paid to do this while you're giving up your free time. And when he refuses credit, he's refusing it for you too—without even consulting you. Just seems unfair to me."
"You are the last person to lecture about morality after what you did to that poor woman! She was reduced to begging because of you, and only now will she receive any justice." Watson spat through the bars.
Good. He was becoming agitated, a sure sign that all the right points had been pressed.
Silver-tongue shrugged. "Perhaps I am. I'm only saying what I see, and I say I've worked with rogues and thieves who appreciated their partners more."
Watson pressed his face to the bars, pointing a finger at Silver-tongue. "I will not have you maligning the character of my friend!"
Damn. Watson was more devoted than Silver-tongue had thought. Even in the darkness of the cell, his fierce protectiveness was evident. These next steps would need to be careful ones.
"You're certainly free to defend him as you see fit. I'm just speaking my mind here, and as someone who knows people pretty well, I think he sees you as an inconvenience." Throw in some detail. "He thinks your lesser intellect and your worries about his health slow him down." Now for the clincher. "In fact, I'd say him not even telling you he was alive all those years is proof he sees you as nothing more than a dog to do his bidding—"
"That's enough!" Watson shouted, alerting the constable. The latter soon took over, which was fine with Silver-tongue. His work on Watson was done.
This next round was going to be much trickier. Sherlock Holmes had a brilliant mind, one that was alert to all things evil and would be much harder to corrupt. For all that he claimed to be Bohemian, Holmes was one of the most annoyingly moral souls Silver-tongue had ever encountered. Now it was him smoking a pipe in the chair outside the cell while Watson was giving statements.
"You happy now, Mr. Holmes?" Silver-tongue asked, not bothering to hide his petulance. "I'll be spending the rest of my life in here thanks to you."
Holmes smiled. "I cannot deny that has long been an ambition of mine. Even if my life or career were to come to an end now, I should be satisfied."
Silver-tongue grunted. "Imagine that doctor friend of yours feels the same." He gave the appropriate pause. "Course, can't hardly call him a doctor no more."
He was pleased to see Holmes turn his head, giving Silver-tongue his full attention. "Whatever do you mean?"
"Well, thanks to you dragging him away from his practice all the time, I don't imagine he's been able to see many patients. Shame, really. Guy like him could have had a great career, made a lot of money. Helped a lot of people."
Holmes considered this, then shrugged it off. "He prefers my kind of work." Silver-tongue let out a laugh. "What?"
"P-p-prefers?" he asked through giggles. "Oi, that's a good one. You should have heard him when he was in here earlier. He's got more bumps and bruises from our little scuffle this morning than I do. You think he likes it that way?"
Holmes stood up and put his face to the bars. "You should know better than to think I would ever be foolish enough to believe a word you say. Telling falsehoods is your business, your hobby, and your profession."
"I ain't asking you to believe a thing," Silver-tongue snapped. "I just feel bad for the bloke for getting stiffed. You put him in all sorts of danger, and I can see plain as day he resents you for it."
Holmes rolled his eyes and turned away. "I never force him to go."
"Don't you? I've read his records of your little adventures, and it seems to me you've done everything but, what with you practically breaking into his rooms and waking him up at all hours. I remember once he tried to leave and you grabbed his wrist and pulled him into a chair. You don't ask, Mr. Holmes. You expect. And then he always has to nurse your arse afterward 'cause you're too much of a fool to take his advice."
Holmes was glaring now. "I would advise you to refrain from speaking about that which you know nothing."
Interesting that he didn't deny it. That was a good sign. Silver-tongue's work was almost complete. He just needed to find that one thing, that sensitive bit everyone had. For Watson it had been the false death, that was obvious. For the old bag, it had been loneliness. But what was it for Holmes? Silver-tongue thought back to what he'd read of them and took his best guess. They were lovers, after all, and love was the best motivator after money.
"Have it your way," he said with an air of resignation. "I just hope the poor bloke marries again soon. With his looks and charm, he shouldn't have any trouble finding a nice lady to settle down with."
There! That vein in Holmes' temple that throbbed for a second, the tension in his shoulders. Watson's marriage. That was the sensitive bit. John Watson had, just once, chosen someone else and left Sherlock Holmes. And Holmes was still not over it.
"There's certainly no hope of me ever getting a wife now. Nor you if I'm not mistaken—" Holmes bristled, and Silver-tongue knew the implied warning had not gone unnoticed. "But I wouldn't be surprised if the doctor was desperate for a woman to come take him away. Tend to his every need and doing it without making him wonder if he's gonna live to see the next day. Wouldn't that be nice?"
Holmes moved away and sat in the chair with his back to Silver-tongue. He said no more, but the quickened puffing on his pipe and slightly pale tinge to his face made it plain as day what he was thinking.
He was worried.
To Holmes' embarrassment, Watson did end up nursing him when they returned to Baker Street late that night. He had fallen into bed too tired to even sit up at the dinner table, so Watson was obliged to bring the meal Mrs. Hudson had cooked for them (now stone cold) into Holmes' bedroom. He started to move the spoon to Holmes' mouth when he stopped his friend with a hand on his wrist.
"There's no need for that, Watson," Holmes said. "I may be weak, but I'm not an invalid. You need your rest too."
Watson yawned. "Will you give me your word that you will eat a fair amount?"
Holmes held up his right hand. "On my honor." Watson accepted this and bade him goodnight. Holmes forced down a few bites but was feeling far too nervous to eat.
Though Watson was good enough not to detail them in his accounts, Holmes had made many an error in how he perceived people, and not just during cases. What if he had misjudged Watson's opinion of him and his work? He could not deny he was a difficult man to live with. Had Watson finally had enough or did he really feel he had no choice? His financial situation certainly didn't allow for much, especially with—Holmes winced—his practice suffering as it had. Perhaps that was the only reason he didn't have a wife: he couldn't afford to support one.
What a vicious cycle I've created for him, Holmes realized with dismay. First, he would coerce Watson into a case, thereby preventing him from making money, and since Watson made no money, Watson could not move out and have a home of his own. If he could not have a home of his own or any money to speak of, he could not have a wife, which left him only Holmes for company. He was trapped.
And I've been the one to trap him. How did I not see it before?
Holmes cursed himself. Why was he so stupid? How could he have missed it? He fell back against the pillow and shoved the rest of the food down his throat. He could at least do that much for Watson. What a fool he had been.
I don't deserve a friend like him.
Did Watson still consider him a friend? Had he stayed so long out of fear that Holmes would die if he left? Maybe that was what it was really about, caring for a difficult and long-term patient. Perhaps the reason he was pushing so hard to get Holmes healthy was so he could leave.
Fear not, Watson, he thought. From now on I shall ensure you have the choice. He knew that if he confronted Watson with his deductions, the man would deny them vehemently, for the poor fellow was courteous to a fault. The best Holmes could do would be to show him through actions that he was free to leave anytime he wished.
Watson could not expel the vile words of Silver-tongue Smith from his head. Over and over he heard himself referred to as a thankless dog and a servant.
I am not, he insisted to himself. If Holmes wanted a dog, he could have one. The fact that he preferred to have Watson instead surely had to mean that he craved a human relationship.
He wanted more than anything to ask Holmes his true feelings on their friendship but knew better than to attempt it. Holmes was not the sort of man who spoke of personal thoughts unless it involved a case. Watson tried to think of a less direct way of learning the truth but became more confused than ever at dinner the next night, after they had both slept the day away. Holmes placed a glass of water next to his chair instead of his pipe.
"You're not going to smoke?" he asked. Now that he thought of it, Watson couldn't recall many occasions of his friend drinking water unless they were dining in the company of strictly Christian clients. They both preferred wine, brandy, or ale.
Holmes shook his head, eying Watson warily. "No, I have smoked too much lately, wouldn't you agree?" He sipped at his water. "Far more important to stay hydrated."
Where on earth is this coming from? Who was this man and what had he done with Sherlock Holmes? "I'm…glad to hear you say so," Watson said cautiously.
"Oh, I have eaten today too," Holmes added. "Mrs. Hudson was good enough to cook the most delicious of soups, full of vegetables." He pointed to the table. "There is some left if you should care to try it. I think I shall retire early tonight, catch up on sleep so I'm well rested."
"No thank you, I'm quite all right." Confound it all! Here was the sort of changes Watson had desired for ages and had all but given up on ever seeing, and now Holmes was suddenly adopting them all at once. Watson wondered if he had thrown out his cocaine bottle too; he hoped so. But why now?
Your worries about his health slow him down.
Watson slumped in his chair. That must be it. He had nagged Holmes about his health one too many times, and now the man was flaunting a new lifestyle so his old doctor would shut up. Worse, if reminding him to eat every once in a while was such a problem to Holmes, how much more so were Watson's constant questions during cases? Asking him to explain this, clarify that, and so on?
"Holmes," Watson said, and here lay another trouble. For all that he could write volumes about Holmes, he often found trouble thinking of what to say to him. "If I have become a burden to you, you needn't try so hard to spare my feelings. You can rest assured I understand your message perfectly."
He had thought Holmes would grin and express his joy at finally stopping Watson's mother-hen-ing. Instead, he seemed perplexed.
"I was only trying to tell you that you don't have to care for me constantly," he said. "The last thing I want is for you to think of me as one of your patients."
There it was. Stop slowing me down, Doctor. Back off and allow me to move as rapidly as I know I can without you dragging me down. For the first time since he'd left the army, Watson felt like dissolving into tears. He would not do so, however. If Holmes did not want him, he would no longer impose.
"I see," he said and did not bother to hide his bitterness. "In that case, I shall not saddle you with treatments and medical advice any longer. And when the papers arrive tomorrow, I promise to reach for the classifieds first." He retreated to his room, ignoring Holmes' pleas for him to come back.
Of all the mistakes Holmes had made, this easily topped them all. Despite his promise to retire early, he was still staring into the fire long after Watson had done the very thing he'd feared would happen.
All these years, he truly had just been a patient and a form of rent relief. That was the only explanation for Watson wanting to leave the moment he showed a change in his habits. He shut his eyes and breathed deeply to stop his emotions from building up and spilling over.
How foolish of me. I should have known better. Men like him did not have friends, to say nothing of a relationship beyond friendship. Men like him were meant to be alone.
There was a time when the thought seemed nothing more than a simple fact. Now it filed him with such anguish that he bolted from his chair to his bedroom, with his hands over his face.
Holmes emerged in the morning with red eyes, which was quite regrettable. What if Watson thought he had lied about being healthier?
But I will be. He would do anything for Watson, even watch him leave their lodgings. Sitting at the breakfast table alone and staring at his empty chair was a sign of things to come.
The wait was not a long one, however. Watson came downstairs fully dressed and in the businesslike manner he reserved for patients and clients. His slow movements and half-closed eyes as he opened the papers told Holmes he hadn't slept much either. Perhaps he was worried about where to go.
"If you're sure you want to move out," Holmes said nervously. "I could loan you enough to help you get started somewhere."
Watson chuckled, and not in a good way. He snapped the papers so hard that Holmes winced. "So now you think about my finances. I see. That eager to have me out of here, are you?"
"Eager?" Now that was too much, acting as if Holmes was forcing him out. "I have no idea where you came by such a notion, but I assure you I do not wish you to leave Baker Street."
Watson lowered the papers. "What do you mean? Of course you do."
Holmes was flabbergasted. "Nothing could be further from the truth! My greatest wish is that you stay. How on earth have you come to believe otherwise?"
"Well, why else would you go through the charade of caring for yourself?" Watson asked. "You wanted me to think you better so I would stop fussing and slowing up your work, Holmes. I get it."
"Clearly you do not, as my intentions last night were decidedly different." He leaned forward with hope in his heart. "I simply wanted you to have the freedom to leave if you chose to, and not feel as if you had to be my doctor for as long as I live. If you wish to marry again or focus on your practice, I shall not stop you."
Watson looked as confused as Holmes felt. "What makes you think I wish to do either of those things?"
"Because—" This was the silliest and most ironic thing he'd ever admitted to. The very criminal he had warned Watson about had poisoned his own mind. The scoundrel.
"Because Silver-tongue Smith put the idea in my head," he said. He slapped his forehead. "What an idiot I am to have believed him."
Watson laughed. "Oh, Holmes. I do believe we've both been duped. He told me that you saw me as nothing more than a servant. That my attempts at doctoring you had hindered your work enough to make you wish me gone."
"That is absurd!" Holmes declared, fuming at his enemy. He would have to check with Scotland Yard regularly to ensure they did not release him. Even in a prison cell, the man was dangerous.
"I am exceedingly glad to hear you say so," Watson said and looked it. Holmes had never been more ashamed of himself. If Smith had been able to convince Watson of such a thing, Holmes must have embodied it somehow.
"My dear, dear, friend," Holmes said as gently as he could. "Your worth to me is so much greater than a servant's could ever be. And I'm deeply touched that you care enough to doctor me."
Watson started to say something, then changed his mind. "Please, what is it?" Holmes asked. "Let there be no more misunderstandings between us."
"Am I really of help to you on your cases?" Watson asked. "If I slow you down or am less helpful than the police, you may be honest in telling—Holmes?"
The laughter had burst right out of him. Holmes quickly composed himself, trying to hide a smile as he exclaimed, "Less helpful than the police? Have you seen them? Really, Watson, I should think such a thing would be impossible!"
Watson grinned at that too. "Well, it's true that their skills are nowhere near yours. Yet the same could be said about me. Which is why I worry that you would be more effective working alone or with someone…well, cleverer."
Those words were enough of a blow on their own, and as Watson said them, the sun streamed through their window in a way that lit his face just right. The light brought out the warmth in Watson's eyes and nearly brought tears to Holmes'. He couldn't help it, he reached for Watson's hand and gripped it tight.
"My dear, dear Watson," he said, hoping his voice wouldn't shake. "There is no one else in the world I would rather have by my side. You inspire me more than anyone ever has." He would never tire of that smile. "Understand, when I embark on an adventure designed to test my abilities, I do not need someone who resembles me."
He squeezed Watson's hand and felt a bout of shyness compel him to look away. "Rather, I require someone who complements me. Who has knowledge and experiences that I don't, and the compassion that I don't."
"You are compassionate, Holmes, don't you even think of saying otherwise!" Watson insisted.
Holmes pointed to him. "See what I mean? You keep me right." Something occurred to him, and he faced Watson's eyes again. "And I'm sorry that I haven't done a better job of showing that. I should have conveyed to you before how invaluable your friendship is to me. I should have said it before, Watson, but at least let me say it now: thank you."
Watson covered Holmes' hand with his own. "It is my pleasure and privilege to serve you, always. And I'm sorry as well. You warned me about Silver-tongue, and yet I allowed him to get into my head anyway." He shook his head. "To think he almost succeeded in tearing us apart!"
Holmes grinned. "But he failed, of course. No villain should ever have that pleasure." Watson returned his smile, providing such relief that Holmes felt an unusual need to express it physically. Hoping Watson wouldn't object, he crossed to his friend's side of the table and hugged him.
Watson stood and returned it fully, patting Holmes on the back. "As long as you want me here, I will stay."
"Then you'll stay forever!" Holmes said. He couldn't stop smiling. He did have a friend. A true friend, and a partner he would never make the mistake of taking for granted again. "What's mine is yours, Watson, from finances to lodgings."
"How about your time?" Watson asked. "After all, we just solved our one-hundredth case together. I'd say it's time for that celebration, wouldn't you say?"
Holmes grinned. "Yes, I believe so. What do you have in mind?"
Now Watson was averting eye contact. To Holmes' amusement, his face was reddening. "Um, well, er, I suppose we could enjoy a bottle of wine and, uh,"
"And?" Holmes tilted Watson's chin up toward him. He slowly moved his face closer, just to test the waters. Watson wasn't moving. The space between them narrowed as Holmes' heart picked up, and in seconds, the two men were the closest they had ever been.
"Is this celebration to your liking?" Holmes asked Watson when they broke for air. He was sure he knew the answer, but he needed to hear it.
"No." Watson cupped his face. "I should like much more." His gaze slid over to Holmes' bedroom. "Perhaps in a more fitting location."
Holmes took hold of his hands and kissed them, imprinting every detail into his head like he would for a beautiful song. "Then lead the way, Doctor."