beta thanks to Janeturenne
I never meant to show Sherlock Holmes the watch.
The wine at lunch -- God help me, wine at lunch -- drove me to that indiscretion, a mistake far worse than goading him over the cocaine, and it was only the realization that time and the watchmaker's assistant must have removed all traces of where the watch had come from that allowed me the strength to actually pass the blasted thing over. And then, despite the flush of the chemical in his veins, he still deduced so much that for a moment of superstitious dread I felt as if he must have a demon upon his shoulder, whispering into his ear.
Had it not been for the timely arrival of a client he might have turned his gaze from the watch to me, and that would have spelled disaster. Holmes can read many a man's thoughts from his face and mine more than most. But Mary Morstan arrived, and the watch was forgotten for the mystery, and I could retreat into myself until my thoughts stopped chasing themselves around inside my head.
After she had gone, Holmes teased me idly over my absorption, wondering aloud if it had to do with the slender ankles and pleasant face of his client, and I caught at the possibility with all the fervor of a drowning man. Leaving Baker Street would be a wrench financially, but considering what living with the nation's cleverest detective was doing to my nerves I had no doubt it would be for the best. It was only by never referring to anything which might lead Holmes to reconsider his opinion of me that I had managed the charade this long. But I could see disaster looming. Holmes would never raise the question of family to me, being deeply reticent on the topic of his own, but it seemed as if I were falling into the failures of my blood, drinking too much, acting far too rashly, and worst of all speaking without thought of the possible consequences. More stumbles were inevitable if I stayed within his sphere, and being Holmes he would remember every one. I had to go, and I'd known it for weeks, and now Holmes had handed me a reason he would comprehend.
For if I were to wed, he'd never question my going; never think to attach it to my reluctance to accompany him to Lyons at the beginning of the year; never wonder at my failure to put on mourning for my brutal, bullying, blackmailing sot of a brother; and never, please God, never apply the Sherlock Holmes test to the darkened patch of wood beneath our sitting room carpet.