Ennairam Atrum Austerus wanted a sequel to "Half of a Whole," with a different ending. This is what I came up with, and it's more like an expanded version with an alternate ending. I hope you like it!
"I am lost without my Boswell," He had said that only once, and only once did Watson quote him. His readers however, were another story. For one reason or another they latched on to that statement, and had him using it multiple times, usually when the situation was dire. He did not understand it, despite Watson's efforts to explain it to him.
"It is because it was a rare instance where you allow others a glimpse of your heart."
"Then do me the good favour Watson, of not including anymore 'glimpses' of my heart in your records if you wish to continue writing them."
Watson for the most part gave his word, but that didn't stop his readers from drawing their own inferences. Finally in exasperation Holmes ordered him to cease publishing. Watson could continue writing for their own personal records, but there would be no more stories appearing in the Strand.
Watson was terribly hurt by this, but Holmes stood his ground.
"You still have your medical practise to earn an income, and you are deserving of fifty per cent of the earning we recieve when we work together on a case. You are in no danger of going penniless. One good thing to come out of your marriage is that it has made you far more careful with money."
"It is not that, Holmes," Watson mumbled. But he refused to elaborate.
Then came Reichenbach. During his three year wanderings, Holmes learned from Mycroft that Watson had taken Holmes' "death" hard, and had taken up writing again. For two years Watson wrote story after story in rapid succession. But after writing about the events of Reichenbach in an article he called "The Final Problem," publication ceased once more.
Holmes, of course was hardly in any position to be cross with Watson for breaking his word, given the enormity of his own sins. And when he learned that Watson's wife had passed away... the guilt was almost overwhelming.
There was more too. A vague sense of incompleteness, as though something were missing. Holmes did not yet recognise what it was.
Returning to London and apologising to Watson was one of the hardest things Holmes had ever had to do in his life. The fact that Watson forgave him so easily was like a knife in the gut, twisting.
Time passed, as it always does. Gradually things between them returned to normal, seemingly both too quickly and too slowly at the same time. Watson still hadn't published anything new after "The Final Problem" had appeared in print. Holmes was wondering if he should lift the ban, especially since he had convinced the doctor to sell his practice.
Letting your only friend believe you to be dead for three years? That was certainly cold and calculated, even with the apology afterward. Less danger of drawing sentimental conclusions. Then again, knowing Watson's readers... Holmes did not make up his mind just then. Later, he would think of just how close he came to having the decision taken from him.
The mistake that he made was one usually made in the arrogance of youth, not an experienced individual like himself. He underesitmated an opponent. That folly cost him dearly.
The man was armed, whipping a revolver from his breast pocket in the blink of an eye.
Watson had always been a better marksman than Holmes, despite the latter's efforts to practice. No doubt it was due to Watson's military service. Regardless, Watson was the better shot despite Holmes' quicker reflexes. Holmes' shot was too high, as their enemy opened fire on them.
The next thing Holmes knew, he was knocked to the pavement as two shots were fired almost simultaneously.
Aside from a lump on the side of his head where his skull had struck the kerb and having the wind knocked out of him, Holmes was uninjured. He sat up very slowly, and looked around. What he saw turned his blood to ice.
Watson and their quarry were lying on the ground in a pool of their own blood.
Holmes raced to his friend's side. Miracle of miracles, Watson still clung to life. Holmes gently lifted him off the ground, rushing him into the nearest cab. Their enemy could be left to rot, save the state the cost of a rope for a hanging. And Holmes' mind was fully occupied with Watson.
They had been together for so long that now, unless someone was addressing him directly Holmes seldom heard his name without it being linked with Watson's, as if they were one person instead of two.
It was no longer just an assumption made by Watson's readers, who were perhaps more observant than Holmes had given them credit for. Somehow, without his realising it, Holmes had become half of a whole. Now the other half was dying in his arms; and Holmes wondered why it had been so important to him that no-one, not even Watson, knew how much he really cared.
There was a violent lurch as the cab rounded a corner.
"Easy, Watson, hold on." Charing Cross Hospital was closer than Baker Street, and Watson's injuries were too severe to take him home anyway.
"Why did you do that, Watson?" Holmes demanded. "That bullet was meant for me, not you."
Watson was too far gone to answer, but Holmes knew what he would have said.
"I could not survive your death a second time!"
"I cannot survive your death once, Watson," Holmes whispered, staring into those hazel eyes that had once been so bright and active, but were now dim and unfocused.
Each breath was coming more slowly than the one before it. Holmes soon found himself matching Watson breath for breath, fearing that the next one would be the last.
"Please, Watson," Holmes begged, not caring that his own eyes were clouded over with tears, and that his voice was becoming more and more frantic.
Then Watson choked, and for one horrible moment that seemed to last an eternity, ceased to breathe altogether. In that one moment, Holmes lost the very last of his self control.
"JOHN!" The name was torn from his lungs. Never before had either of them addressed each other by their Christian names. Not even Watson had at Reichenbach. But now Holmes did, on pure reflex.
"Please," he begged as he buried his face into Watson's shoulder. An expression he had used only once before came to his lips, the situation giving it new meaning.
"I am lost without my Boswell," Holmes whispered into Watson's ear as he continued to hold his friend.
As if in answer to a prayer, Watson began to breathe again. Short, weak gasps, to be sure, but breathing all the same.
When they arrived at Charing Cross, Holmes was told that Watson was going to need surgery to remove the bullet. In the meantime, Holmes should return home and clean himself up.
Holmes was reluctant to leave. What if... He had also been seized by this irrational fear that if he washed the blood---Watson's blood---away, then Watson would die. Holmes was fully aware that it didn't make any sense, but he could not shake the fear no matter how hard he tried.
Eventually, he forced himself to return to Baker Street, telling himself he was accomplishing nothing just sitting in the waiting area except making the other people there extremely uncomfortable. He was home only long enough to change his clothes, breathing a silent prayer of thanks that Mrs. Hudson was on holiday with relatives. She would have delayed him, demanding explanations.
Watson had just come out of surgery when Holmes returned to the hospital. It was too soon to tell at this point if he would survive.
"You must pull through, Watson," Holmes whispered as he sat at Watson's bedside. "Your readers are over due for another story." He slipped his hand into Watson's.
Night turned into day then turned into night once more. Holmes never strayed far from his vigil, keeping his eyes on Watson the whole time, alert for any change.
Finally, as dawn began to break on the third day, Watson's eyelids twitched, then slowly opened.
Holmes came extremely close to fainting, overwhelmed as he was with relief and sleep deprivation.
Watson licked his lips, tried to speak. Holmes stopped him.
"Don't talk, Watson. You're still too weak. Just... just rest now. All is well."
Watson smiled slightly, then drifted off to sleep, squeezing Holmes' hand as he did so. He would remain in the hospital another three weeks before the doctors were willing to release him; and after that he was confined to his bed in Baker Street for another two weeks, much to his dismay.
Holmes did what he could to help him pass the time. He really caught Watson off guard though, when he presented his friend with a brand new journal and a suggestion.
"Why not tell people of the Baskervile Case? That certainly needs little embellishing."
"You want me to start publishing again?" Watson asked, puzzled. "But you were so against it... what changed your mind?"
"You need something to occupy your time and truth be told... I could use some form of advertisement to alert people to my survival and my return to London."
Holmes wondered how much Watson remembered from that night, and how much he was giving away in his expressions.
Watson smiled, and a spark returned to his eyes as he flipped the journal open and began to write.
For the first time in a very long while, Holmes finally felt complete.