Disclaimer: Holmes, Watson, and Mrs. Hudson aren't mine and sadly never will be. T^T
A/N: Not a happy. That's all the more I have to say on the matter.
It was ten o'clock in the evening before Watson was able to sit down and relax. He dropped gratefully into his armchair and picked up the novel he'd been working on, sipping a fresh cup of herbal tea. Mrs. Hudson had retired early and, more importantly, Holmes was out boxing. Watson had the house to himself, along with a much-needed helping of peace and quiet.
However, it seemed to be growing late rather fast, and Holmes still hadn't returned. Watson finished chapter after chapter, each time glancing warily at the clock. It was far from unusual for him to be out past midnight, but he'd said he would be back earlier tonight.
Watson shrugged of his feeling of unease. He felt a little like a concerned wife. Finally, unable to endure thinking up horrible things that could befall Holmes any longer, he resolved to go to bed. He'd see his friend in the morning.
No sooner had Watson set down his book when his door burst open and Holmes collapsed on his floor. The doctor simply stared for a moment, figuring he'd pick himself back up and offer an explanation, but Holmes wasn't rising. Rather, he was bleeding on the rug.
The moment Watson registered the blood, he was out of the chair and across the room with a cry of "Holmes!" He dropped onto his knees at his friend's side, pushing him onto his back. From this position, he could see the terrible wound crossing Holmes's right temple. "Holmes, I thought you were boxing!"
"Boxing…" he mumbled, "…I was…boxing…."
"Well this is far from a boxing wound! This can't possibly have been made by someone's fist!"
"Was…coming home…."
Watson shrugged off his jacket and balled it up, placing it under Holmes's head. He unbuttoned his waistcoat as fast as possible and pulled that off as well. "Go on," he said, pushing the garment to Holmes's head.
"…pushed one boxer…a little…too far…."
The doctor wasn't surprised. Insults, unfortunately, were things Holmes excelled at. "And you paid for it later."
"Watson…."
"Hush, Holmes, I'm right here." Watson held Holmes's jaw in one hand and pressed harder on his wound. The bleeding was slowing, but there was no telling how much blood he had already lost. "How far did you get before they caught up with you?"
"…Kettle Street."
Watson was taken aback. "You came all the way from Kettle Street with an injury like this?" His heart sank. Kettle Street was at least a dozen blocks away.
"…wanted to…home."
"Wanted what?"
"Wanted…to die…at home."
"Holmes, you're not going to die, and I won't have you thinking that way," Watson said. "Remember I'm a doctor. I can fix this!"
"…dying, Watson…."
"You're not dying, you're being ridiculous. Come now."
Holmes opened his eyes with great effort. He tried hard to focus them on Watson's face. "Watson…I don't—"
"You're going to be fine!
"…don't want to die…."
"You won't die!" Watson was surprised to hear how small his voice sounded.
Holmes grinned. "…always thought I'd go…in a gutter…all by myself…this is better than I…hoped for…."
"Holmes," Watson whispered. He could feel tears on the verge of falling.
The sleuth's bright brown eyes clouded over. He heaved a sigh and let them close.
Watson set his jaw and bowed his head, overcome by grief as tears leaked from beneath his eyelids and dropped onto Holmes's face.
John Watson held his brother's body and cried.
Before you ask, yes, I did make the last line the same as the last line in Just Holmes on purpose. I rather like it. So look at some pictures of puppies or kittens or men for a minute so your happy factor is restored, and then review. :D