This is just a little one-shot I had started to write a few days ago while thinking what would happen if Watson had a brother that died, and then my imagination kinda ran away with it :) Please tell me what you think! Constructive criticism is most welcome!
It was a pleasant spring morning in the year 1891; the streets were bustling with activity, even more so now that the flowers have bloomed and fruits and vegetables have ripened. The tobacco shop across the street from our apartment in particular was having good business today. Holmes had already asked me to dispose myself and buy him some new, fresh tobacco yesterday; undoubtedly purchasing some today would only waste my time. However, I don't describe with my usual "florid and romantic style," as Holmes likes to put it, the scene passing by below the window. my heart was burdened enough as it was, and I could not put on additional weight with the process of documenting a case of Holmes's.
On this day, exactly twenty years ago, my brother Charles died. Just recalling my dear brother's name was enough to force me into a chair before I would have collapsed. Because, I was to blame for Charles's untimely end. If I hadn't been a prideful Army doctor, and spiteful of my family for opposing my choice to join the Queen's regiments of Britain, I could have been there in time to save him.
He had gone to visit a friend of his, who I cannot mention for risk of publication of this, and had been out for quite some time. I was at home that night, which also coincidentally happened to be the night before I was to be sent to Afghanistan, and feeling more malicious than ever towards my supposed "family". Charles had gone out to counsel his friend for advice, regarding me and my behavior. I had sneered at him, calling him "an impassionate brute who can't support his own brother". My father had not spared me an argument concerning my approaching deployment, and my mother had attempted to trick me into feeling guilty for leaving my relations in Britain, but neither method of getting me to remain had the desired effect upon me. By ten that night I was wearied and exhausted, and angry. I'd retired without a "good night" and stomped upstairs to my room. Unfortunately, it was one of those nights where Exhaustion plays its games with you, and fools you into thinking that once your head hits the pillow, you're whisked away into a false reality of dreams and nonsense. If it's of any consequence, I was more alert once I had settled under my afghan.
At about eleven, I heard a commotion down below in the front hallway of the house. I'd gotten up and looked out the window, noticing a carriage stationed right outside; it belonged to Scotland Yard. It wasn't a few moments later that I heard Mother scream.
It didn't take much for me to put two and two together; Charles had not yet returned from his friend's, or else I would have heard him. If Scotland Yard was going to bother us when it was near midnight, then it had to concern my brother. Obviously something terrible had happened to Charles; the police wouldn't come to us this late to inform us that my brother has just robbed an old, wealthy woman of her precious jewels, or stole a hansom. No...this was a matter bearing the inscription of death.
I shall never forgive myself for the unrelenting emotions I felt at that moment of comprehension. I felt relieved, grateful, vindictive; I'd thought to myself, This is what he deserves. If only he'd been a dutiful brother and been happy for me for wanting to serve my country!
My nature, however, is not naturally so cruel and unkind. It was only the rising action of the last few weeks, with such tangible tension and spite in the household because of my foolish pride that it rose to such a tragic climax. My previous feelings were instantly replaced with emotion more befitting me: anxiety, discomfort, and an ominous feeling of foreboding. I quickly donned my robe and descended the stairs to meet the party in front of the door, consisting of my father and three Scotland Yard officers. Father was speaking quietly with one of them, a rugged-looking fellow with a moustache and a crooked nose. Behind the closed doors to the parlor, I could hear soft sobbing.
"Father, what is it?" I asked.
Father looked back to the officer, who nodded an assent of some sort. When I recognized such deep pain and despair in his eyes, I knew the answer to my question.
"It's about Charles, John. He is dead," he replied calmly, reminding me now of how Holmes would break such news to someone.
"How?"
"A hansom driven by a heavily intoxicated man crashed into Charles as he was walking home. Scotland Yard was called upon when Charles's friend heard the crash and contacted them." Father paused and breathed in, slowly and unsteadily. "An ambulance was also called, but before it could arrive Charles was already dead."
Suddenly it was as if the room had gone dark and still, and I was the only breathing soul alive. I felt lonely. I realized that Charles wouldn't come up the steps behind the officers and pull their hats over their eyes, like he would do frequently to Father when we were children; my brother was notorious in the neighborhood for his skillful pranks and jokes. I was irrevocably alone in the world, estranged from my father and mother, who could only hate me after what I had said and done to them. I was without my brother, my comrade, my friend. Grief washed over me as I provided little resistance. The room had begun to turn on to its side.
I'd never told Holmes about my brother, just as he had failed to mention his until recently. This wasn't my friend's anguish to bear. He would disown me from Baker Street if I told him, when he'd realize that it was truly my fault, and that I had murdered a good, innocent man. Even if he wouldn't believe it, I would still feel the incomprehensible guilt that still clouded my thoughts. Sherlock Holmes would never need to know about the extent of my pain, and the heartache that grips me when I notice something that reminds me distinctly of my deceased brother. On some nights, when Holmes would smoke his pipe, I would catch a glimpse of him. Both men wore the same relaxed and slightly jaded expression when smoking their pipes; they even smoked the same quality of tobacco, something that I found amusing and yet woeful.
Holmes had departed the rooms earlier this morning, saying he would return in time for lunch. It was close to noon now, so he had a fairly reasonable hour and a half to make good on his promise. That also left me time to go out as well, to Charles's grave. It was a ritual I performed every year in honor of my brother, so that God could find it within him to forgive me of my sins towards my brother. I would go out and smoke a pipe next to Charles, and if the air was still with no sound or movement, I could almost conjure a living memory of him, sitting next to me and copying my actions. We would discuss all the events of the past year; I was usually in a more communicative mood than he, but it felt rectifying to feel his presence, and imagine that he had forgiven me.
"Mrs. Hudson!" Our landlady hurried through the door to our consulting room, flour bleaching her face and hands. "I am going out for about an hour or two. Please do not delay lunch on my account, and if Holmes returns before I do, let him know I shall be back presently."
"And where shall I tell him you went?" she asked.
"Just...tell him...I went to call on a patient."
Mrs. Hudson did not look convinced, and shook her head. "He's not going to believe that."
"Then, I went for a stroll through Regent's Park."
"He would still know you're lying. You regularly take your walks when it's nearly dusk, and it's too early now."
"Couldn't you just make an excuse for me?" I asked. I was becoming more exasperated by the minute.
"Absolutely not!" she said with a discerning eye. "I shall not lie to Mr. Holmes for you!"
"Fine! Then just tell him that I'm going to see a patient!"
"He won't believe it!"
"Then he'll just have to accept it!" My voice had grown progressively louder with each comment, and each stab of truth to Mrs. Hudson's statements. Sherlock Holmes knew me better than I even knew myself, and he would see through such a flimsy account for my actions. I couldn't trust him to let the matter alone should he discover my true intentions for leaving Baker Street, but the ninety minutes I'd planned to spend with my brother were quickly shortening the more time I used to argue with Mrs. Hudson. He would just have to accept it then.
"Are you all right, doctor?" Mrs. Hudson asked. I looked at her and saw her blue eyes betraying apprehension. "Do you need a cup of tea?"
"No, thank you Mrs. Hudson. I just need to go."
I located my pipe on the mantelpiece, and being sure not to cause any further disorganization in Holmes's life, packed a little of his tobacco into my bowl pipe, enough to last me the remainder of time I was given. I gathered my coat and hat and made my way down the stairs. Before I opened the front door, Mrs. Hudson called from the banister, "I'll tell Mr. Holmes that Mr. Bernard's fever had acted something fierce, and you were called away to care for him."
The relief flooded my veins, and my voice as I replied, "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I shall return soon."
I hailed a hansom and set off to Beech Hill Cemetery, being reminded with each bump in the solitary road leading to Charles that it was a hansom responsible for the journey I was making now. The sky was a vivid blue, cloudless and inviting. In other words, a complete contrast to the misery I was feeling. I watched the spring flowers dance in a soft breeze that felt so peaceful I had to roll up the flap covering the window of the cab and let the air waft towards me. It was a temporary aphrodisiac to the sadness, a ray of sun shining through a storm. It gave me a small hope that the meeting would pass without complete desolation, but it did not give me a feeling that it would pass altogether pleasantly either.
We passed under the archway marking the entrance to the territory of the dead, causing a shiver to pass through my spine. I called the driver to stop after we'd traveled about thirty yards from the arch; the rest of the path leading to Charles's grave was a mild walk distance. His resting place was situated on a hilltop overlooking the entire cemetery, with a single helm oak tree providing shade from a hot summer's day, or shelter from a winter's snowfall. If it weren't for the hundreds of other gray stones protruding from the earth around it, the secluded hill could pass as lovely.
The path leading to his grave wasn't terribly rough, but the wound in my leg pressed me to walk up as quickly as I could. Unfortunately, I had misjudged the entire distance from the hansom, and had to travel an extra half-mile to reach the nadir of the hill. Upon looking up, I could distinguish a figure standing next to my brother's headstone. As I continued up the path, the figure became more distinguishable; it was a man, tall and gaunt, wearing a black overcoat and a black top hat. It wasn't too long that I could put a name to the man. It was none other than Sherlock Holmes.
My heart dropped to my stomach as quickly as my mind was barraged with questions. Why was he here, looking upon my dead brother's grave? Did he know about the familial connection between us? I chuckled without a hint of humor; since it was Sherlock Holmes, of course he had managed to figure out who he was, and that I had kept a rather large secret from him.
He didn't hear me approach the site, and almost jumped when I said quietly, "Hello Holmes."
"Watson!" he yelped. He turned around with surprise etched into his face. "You startled me, old fellow."
"I wasn't aware that you knew of this cemetery."
"My dear friend, you should already know that I am knowledgeable of every square inch of this county, from the smallest grain of dirt to the tallest tree. Which, by chance, happens to be this very oak." He gestured to it with a flourish of his gloved hand, causing me to smile a little.
I made a gesture of my own to Charles's grave. "Did you know that this is the grave of my brother, Holmes? Did you know that?"
"I had deduced as much," was the simple reply.
"How did you know about him?" I asked with no small amount of wonder.
Holmes chuckled solemnly. If it weren't for the grave atmosphere, he would have laughed heartily. I knew the fellow much too well.
"Ah Watson, I regret to inform you that I have been reading your journal with my preying eyes.
"You read my journal?" I said warily with a small hint of hurt.
"I regularly do."
"Why?"
Holmes shrugged, an uncomplicated movement. "I have an insatiable curiosity when it comes to you, Watson. To me, you are the most puzzling being of my acquaintance, and I have yet to solve the enigma that is you, no matter how many clues I come into possession of."
"My journal being one of them?" I asked with a raised eyebrow.
"Yes," he admitted apologetically. "But yesterday, you seemed fairly gloomy at breakfast, and it had only seemed to increase to utter desolation by dinner. That is far from your nature, so I had to know what was tormenting you. That leads to another reason why I read your journal, my dear Watson. In discovering your demons, I can see if, by my hand, I can prevent them from hurting you."
I had never heard such a speech come from Sherlock Holmes's lips. In that, he had proved the existence of a wonderfully big heart that equaled his brain. I had never beheld such confirmation of our friendship in all the years I'd resided with Holmes at 221B Baker Street; I had begun to fear that he was hopelessly deprived of man's most vital organ. Once, a friend of mine had joked complacently that if Sherlock Holmes had a heart, it was only there to pump blood into his domineering nervous system, and nothing else. After I'd coldly replied that that was exactly what the heart did, the insufferable idiot, I disagreed wholeheartedly. And now I had proof that the conjecture was an absolute lie, for which I was grateful beyond imaginable.
"Holmes," I said, my voice gruff with a vain attempt to conceal my emotion, "I realize that I should be angry with you for reading such private information, but I cannot bring myself to feel as such. Thank you, my dear friend, for wanting to help me. But this is something that I can't be saved from. I have to live with the consequences of my stupid pride and suffer alone. I would much prefer it as so."
"Watson..." Holmes started to say, but I held a hand up to silence him.
"I don't want you to think of me as weak, and vulnerable."
"How can you say so? You are the strongest, bravest man of my acquaintance, Watson, and I shall not allow you to belittle yourself in this manner! I could never think of you as weak, my dear fellow!" Holmes cried.
"You, who despise emotion and feeling so much..." I mused, shaking my head.
"Yes, even though I am not an expert on the full spectrum of human emotion, I am not nearly enough of an imbecile to completely ignore it! Watson, I may believe that emotion dilutes the senses and all logical reason in a man, but I cannot stop all the men on Earth from feeling. I could never think any less of you, my dear Watson, because you are feeling weak and vulnerable."
I didn't answer right away; I was still trying to process what he was telling me. So the man did not hate emotion as much as he led me to believe? He must only be saying that to make me feel better.
"It was my fault, you know," I said slowly. "If it had not been for my malicious dignity, he would not have felt the need to go to his friend about the matter, and thus wouldn't have been crushed by the hansom."
"It is not your fault, John! You could have never known that a man would decide to throw his life into the Thames by getting drunk and driving like a bloke all over London while not paying attention to pedestrians. It could have happened to anybody!" he said earnestly.
"But it just happened to be my brother, Holmes. Providence was angry with me that day, and decided to take my only sibling and end his life because of me!"
"You could have done nothing to save him, Watson!"
"Why did he not take a cab, Holmes? Why?" I asked, tears beginning to form in my worn eyes.
Holmes ignored my question and embraced me fiercely, leaving me no room to continue. I had become near hysterical, and now sobbed into my friend's overcoat. Every ounce of blame and guilt and fury I held to myself was poured out for Sherlock Holmes to witness. I didn't have the mind to feel embarrassed, however. He couldn't lead me to think that I was humiliating myself. He allowed me to cry, for hours it seemed, while he rubbed soothing circles on my back. He didn't say anything, for which I was thankful.
It seemed an eternity before I ceased my tears, and I patted Holmes's arm to let him know that I was done, and it was over. He released me from his hold, but a reluctant hand remained on my arm. He looked down at me with uncertain grey eyes. I tried to grin up at him, but it must have looked like a pathetic attempt at a smile. I couldn't look into his eyes knowing that I had publicly displayed my feelings to him, one who shunned weakness and disapproved of it. Even though he'd told me it was only natural, and he couldn't dislike me for it, I didn't want to believe that.
"Sorry Holmes," I said after a long silence.
"There is nothing to apologize for, my dear Watson," he said softly, still looking at me with that hesitant gleam in his eyes.
I grasped his shoulder with a shaky gloved hand and squeezed it, as if my gratitude for his appearance here wasn't already plain as day for him to see. "I should have liked to introduce you to him, Holmes. He was a wonderful man, intelligent, quick-witted, a prankster. He also held quite the admiration for Queen Victoria."
"Then I should have liked to have known him!" Holmes cried. "Any fellow who admires the queen as much as myself is a friend to me."
"Yes, no matter who the man."
We stood silent for a few minutes, looking out at the sea of gray that rose and signaled the lives of human beings who had been deprived of life; whether they were aware or ready for it was another question that was unanswerable. They were in the hands of Providence now. It was a rather somber sight. All those people...I wondered how many were snatched from their families prematurely, like Charles. It was in the midst of this thought that Holmes said quietly, "So, Watson...you never said what you do when you visit your brother."
"Couldn't deduce that from my writings?" I asked with a chuckle.
"I could barely deduce your scrawl, old fellow! Do you realize it took me about four hours with my magnifying glass to at least attempt to discern your musings? And even then I'd only read about a page in its entirety!" he teased.
"Well then, do you have a pipe handy, Holmes?"
"As a matter of fact, yes. Why do you ask?"
I removed mine from my pocket and let a ray of solitary sunlight catch the dark-wooded object. "I didn't bring much tobacco with me. I'm afraid I wasn't aware of the prospect of company, but there is enough for the both of us to use for...twenty minutes, perhaps."
Holmes raised an eyebrow. "It seems I have a tobacco thief on my hands. Why didn't you just ask me for some, Watson? Why portray such a shadowy figure?"
I only shrugged, as simple as it had been when Holmes had done it before. "You would have asked why I needed it, and I wouldn't be able to tell you. Then you would become more inquisitive, and then refuse to hand some over until you got an explanation from me."
"You're correct, I would have."
"Trust me, Holmes, it was easier this way."
"I still don't like the fact that you've reduced yourself to a petty thief," he said with mock seriousness. "From now on, you will ask."
"And if I agree, you will not ask for an explanation," I countered.
Holmes bit his bottom lip with indecision, but soon smiled and answered, "Very well, Watson. It's a deal."
We shook hands on it. Then I lowered myself to the grass on the right side of Charles's grave, using the block of stone to stabilize me. Holmes followed suit, a new fire alight in his eyes. He'd finally deduced as to what I do with my dear brother.
"You smoke during your meetings?" he asked somewhat dubiously.
"Yes. And if it pleases you, you may join us."
I motioned to him for his pipe, and I deposited a small amount of the smoking material into his pipe bowl. I then lit my own device, and he did the same simultaneously. We sat there, two friends smoking in the company of my deceased brother. I finally felt at peace with myself, and when I thought about it, I think Charles was at peace too. Holmes was my constant, my anchor in this restless sea I found myself being tossed about in. He gracefully accepted the truth, and my unspoken apology for keeping this information from him. I believe Charles was sitting next to me, watching us and smiling on in an approving sort of manner.
"Holmes," I said, "I would like to introduce you to my brother, Charles Watson. Charles, this is Sherlock Holmes."
I looked over to Holmes to be sure he wasn't looking upon me like I was a raving lunatic, but he was wearing the customary expression I knew so well; half-lidded eyes, a consistent rhythm of puffing smoke and breathing. I imagined Charles extending a friendly hand to Holmes, only to be received with a curt nod, a typical Sherlock Holmes greeting.
I opened my eyes to see my friend, with the utmost concentration upon his face, nod to the air before him.
"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Watson," he spoke.
I exhaled softly, my lips stretching into a smile.