A/N: So, oh! I haven't posted a story here in a LONG time, and now I'm so excited! I just thought it would be fair to mention that there will be some inevitable OOC moments, so consider yourselves warned! Also, I want to thank my beta, ayafangirl, for correcting this story and giving me an enormous amount of wonderful tips! And if it should happen that you do find some mistakes, they are all mine. And reviews are, of course, appreciated!

Read the Signs

"There were no embraces, because where there is great love there is often little display of it."

– Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote

I.

It all started one innocent day when Dr. John Watson decided to go for a walk, rather than stay indoors and miss the wonderful opportunity to catch the first rays of sunshine that spring.

The sun was up high and it seemed to have woken up the nature. The birds were singing, the people were laughing, and Watson felt as if through the window he could actually see the grass growing merrily.

It was because of this joyful atmosphere that the sight of his good friend Sherlock Holmes standing right outside his house with a huge wound gashing a part of his leg probably shocked him even more than it usually would.

"Watson."

"Holmes."

Watson avoided the "What on earth has happened to you?" question and guided the injured detective to the nearest chair. Holmes, once seated, opted to say nothing. He just stared blankly – if somewhat sadly – at the wall opposing him.

Watson took care of the red hole in his friend's leg quite professionally, although when he saw it wasn't lethal, the concern faded and Watson started quietly fuming at Holmes' talent for interrupting his free time, which he savored so much. When he finished tending to the wound and returned to the present, a part of that concern returned as well. There were a few moments of silence before Watson gathered the courage to speak.

"Are you all right?" he asked, knowing full well what a pointless question that was, and mentally scolding himself; he knew an unpleasant remark was most certainly coming his way.

"I never said I wasn't," came the quiet, perhaps even strained reply.

"Nonsense! You were bleeding from a wound that wasn't so tiny, after all. No need to act heroic, old boy."

Watson saw something in Holmes' eyes, but he couldn't quite identify it. First, there was a tinge of anger, then of doubt (hesitation maybe?), and finally of a sadness so intense he had to look away. Once he looked at the detective's face again, he saw his never-fading mask – he really did; but he also noticed that it wouldn't last much longer – it was collapsing.

The sad detective took a long, somewhat pained intake of air and choked the words out: "I know," – a gulp – "I'm not all right. Oh, Watson – I'm not all right at all."

Watson was temporarily left in awe of this turn of events that came too suddenly for him to prepare. The look he saw on Holmes' face was not a usual one a person would see, and it scared him – its strangeness scared him.

Holmes' expression was becoming more and more devastated as the seconds ticked by. Finally, the way he looked at Watson was beyond any look he thought Holmes capable of. It was helplessness he saw.

"I...I need..."

"What do you need, Holmes?" curious, but still soft and without pressure.

"I...need to get out." Hurried and mumbled. Holmes got up and surged towards the door. He opened and then closed it with a great thud, and it took Watson a few seconds to comprehend the situation. Once it got to him that he should run after Holmes, he did so only to find him kneeling on the floor right outside the house. His head was in his hands, and his shoulders seemed to be slightly shaking. Watson stopped dead in his tracks.

But no, there's no way he would...

Watson thought himself to be the only one who knew all about what to do and how to act around Holmes. But even he was outwitted now – what should he do? What was he even able to do?

He instinctively knelt next to a defeated Holmes and put a hand on his shoulder. It was only then that Holmes noticed Watson's presence, and the shock of realizing he had been seen vulnerable by another human being was enough to make him stop crying at once.

And to Watson, at that precise moment he looked as if he actually had full reign over his emotions – and, quite frankly, he had almost none. Not at that moment, at least. He slowly exhaled and, trying to wipe his face with his sleeve as subtly as he could, he bit his lip hard.

"I'm sorry to have caused you this inconvenience, Watson." Ragged and hoarse. And with that, he got up and walked away slowly. Watson would have attempted to catch and stop him, but he realized that his quest would be futile. After all, he knew.

Holmes doesn't...care about me. And why would he? After all, I'm just an ordinary army doctor. No, I'm just a doctor, in fact. I didn't even properly show him how fond I was of him during the time we shared the flat in Baker Street – and especially during the final days. I never told him he was the reason I remained sane after Afghanistan. I should have, and now he doesn't know. To him I was just someone who was there to watch his back... He doesn't care about me. Well, not like...that. I doubt he would even call me his friend. And now this...it would just annoy...no...I...he doesn't want me to...no. No.

He covered his face with his hand and suddenly his chest was on fire, forcing him to send a sudden desperate gush of air flying through his mouth.

He's too proud, he would never talk to anyone about his problems, and I am definitely no exception to that rule.

Holmes had gone away, and Watson was left standing there, more baffled than he had been in ages, a strange painful and swelling sensation contorting his lungs. He let desperation wash over him.

I don't know what to do.