Written for the line: "Watson, did you ever consider that you were … sent home for that reason? To befriend a lonely consulting detective?" –from Lemon Zinger's 'Lessons from a Long-suffering Landlady'.
I gazed at Holmes's profile as he stared at the stage, absolutely mesmerised by the music he was listening to. To even my untrained ear it sounded beautiful; how much more beauty, then, could be found in such a masterpiece – if I may say so – by a musician? For while his 'musical experimentations' were sometimes unwelcome, I reckon it is only because they took place at ungodly hours of the night when anyone would be annoyed to be roused from their beds by any sound at all, no matter how lovely.
His grey eyes flickered lazily as he glanced at me, and when they met mine he faced me with a slight smile upon his lips. "Did you want something, Watson?"
"No, no, not at all," said I, and he turned back to the performance.
My mind swung towards what brought us to this state of companionship, where we could sit in absolute silence and yet be perfectly at peace with everything and with each other. Of all the soldiers who fell in that morass of blood, chaos, and desperation, why was I sent home with nothing but my wounds to mar my body?
Why was I of all the soldiers, I with nothing but an alcoholic brother to live for, shot in the leg but allowed to continue living? Not for the first time in my acquaintance with my eccentric friend, I wondered, "Why me?"
I looked back at my friend's aquiline profile, a relaxed, almost serene expression upon his usually intense features. He was leaning forward in his seat, his body communicating his entire absorption with the music. His eye had that peculiar flash it would acquire during particularly interesting cases, when his mind was racing a mile a minute and his bloodstream tingled with adrenaline.
An image struck me: Holmes, in the case I had dubbed 'The Adventure of the Naval Treaty', leaning in the window and contemplating a rose. It was such a contradictory and yet such a perfect image that it rang true with me. Logical Holmes appreciating a simple rose had never occurred to me, but he was a genius, and genius always acknowledged its fellow.
Perhaps this, then, was why I of all of them had been chosen to be herded back to London because of my non-existent connections and my equally non-existent income. Perhaps the reason I had stumbled upon young Stamford that fateful day Holmes was at the laboratory was Holmes himself.
Holmes. A cold, rational man whose whole life was built around reason and logic, and yet whose softer qualities of honour, chivalry – though certainly not much of that – and occasional touches of consideration lingered underneath his mask.
I will forever be grateful to him for giving me adventure after adventure to satisfy my restless soul, keeping me from death. I am a bit like him that way – I cannot abide being bored for long.
He is a man certainly worthy of my friendship and my loyalty, and he rescued me, even though he needed it himself. Though I hated him for a time after his death – I was angry, and anger can turn love into hate for brief moments – we always reconciled, always came back to Baker Street to go on more adventures. Even after I married, he was still, and ever will be, my closest and dearest friend. Though he hates sentiment, he will be my first confidant.
Perhaps the reason I was so hopeless at that first point in my life was because there was an equally hopeless, equally lonely person in the cesspool that drew us both, and drew Stamford who would unite us. I was maybe drawn to the war, shot, sent home, and drawn to London, all to befriend a lonely consulting detective.
I smiled. Perhaps, after all, my life had seen its fruit in the cases I transcribed, courtesy of my dear – I may even say dearest, as I have had none so close – friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
Watson was watching me.
I knew it from the glance I threw him. I knew it from the sensation at the back of my neck that had developed every time someone's gaze rested upon me. I knew it from a dozen little signs that had unconsciously worked themselves into this conclusion.
My lips curled slightly at the corners. I used to engage three tickets here just so that no strangers sat on either side of me, thinking their murky thoughts and smelling of their thick London smells. But Watson was here now. My mind now focused on the music because my friend was somehow a balm to the restless buzz of my subconscious. I no longer minded the presence of the man on my left. I only knew, and only cared to know, the man on my right.
Because for some reason, this man on my right who would otherwise have been ordinary, commonplace – boring – was a man whose life I valued above my own, and the only man I considered my true friend.
For now I cut off this train of thought and listened to the music. It was only in the cab ride back to Baker Street that I picked it back up and followed it.
Trevor was a friend, but he lived a life apart from mine. His interests, while not entirely separate, did not complement my own, and after our short period of friendship we drifted apart, especially after his father's case, a case now immortalised by Watson as – I believe it is – 'The Adventure of the Gloria Scott'. Yes, it is.
But John Watson, M.D., shoved his way into my life, my sanctum, and the inner circle of my acquaintance that contained only me, and stayed there despite my attempts to shake him off. He clung to me as a man to his bucking horse, holding on, as if he ever let go it would be his end.
Was I really so precious to him?
The gulf his marriage and then my charade had created between us was immense by the time I returned. I never realised just how much I had missed my Boswell until he was no longer there, and while I grieved my own absence from him, I had no idea how badly it had affected him.
He was angry. Oh, yes, he had every right to be; I had simply not expected the degree of anger he showed me. I was ashamed to admit that his barbs had hurt more than I cared to say, and that I wished for nothing more than to throw myself at his feet, undignified as that would be, and plead forgiveness. I never imagined I could be brought to this state, but it is his doing alone.
Watson – plucky, loyal, incredibly patient Watson – is 'the best and the wisest man whom I have ever known'. It is an apt quote, taken from the man himself, although ironically he was describing me. I wish I had his gift for words, for then perhaps I should do him justice.
Quickly the man became my constant companion and the perfect caretaker. Our lives shoved and scraped like so much sandpaper, but he finally forced himself into the place of those things I hold dear. Where would I be, now, had I not befriended him?
My morocco case, I fancied, would be in much more frequent use, as Watson is a good talker and good to share an evening with telling stories. He loves them, and I like it when he tells them. It is a shame that his eye for detail is often turned towards the mundane and the unimportant. I would be bored, bored, bored to death without John Watson!
My eyes flickered underneath their lashes as I recognise Baker Street from the bumps in the road. His chestnut hair gleamed light brown in the light of the lamp, his green eyes half-closed and wandering lazily.
Sometimes I wonder what brought me to the laboratory that fateful day when young Stamford ushered in an Afghan-war soldier invalided home with no kith or kin to depend on. I cannot remember. Dear me, how Mycroft would tease! In any case I thank whatever order the universe is in for my Boswell, for I knew then and I knew it well that I could not manage without him.
I suppose he was right those first few months, to cling to me for dear life, for at the moment I knew I would be lost without him, however annoying he was at times back then.
I was adrift when Watson met me – bored out of my mind, longing for adventure and stimulation and just anything to do, really. He gave me something to work for, someone to work with, and another way to work around my opponents. Though my gratitude is directed at whoever or whatever sent me Watson, I also thank him. For his infinite patience and his caring loyalty especially, as well as his kindness, his empathy, and his ability to reach out to me in a way I never could have managed.
I let my mind work on this romantically fanciful notion, the sort that Watson would probably theorise about in his stories. Perhaps I was adrift that day so that I would go to the laboratory, be there to bother Stamford and make that peculiar remark which Watson happened to also make. Perhaps I was aimless, wandering – in a sense, purposeless – so that Watson could find me.
Perhaps I was walking the edge of that precipice because Watson was too, so that we could find and save each other.
I hopped out at Baker Street and jumped up the stairs, shutting off this fantastical spin of my thoughts and turning my mind instead to cases.
However, there were none, and Watson bid me goodnight. I laughed and said, "Very well. Goodnight, my dear fellow." His smile prompted one of my own rare ones, and I allowed a bit of the true affection I cherished for my companion to show.
Dr. John Watson smiled even wider and vanished upstairs with another goodnight.