"You wouldn't have done it, would you?" I asked later that evening, with my injured thigh neatly bandaged up and the rest of my body warm from spicy tea and the blazing fire. Holmes was, as he usually was at the end of a stimulating case, sprawled on the settee with his right hand above his head, clutching a cigarette. He hummed languidly and turned his head towards me.
"Done what, Watson?" he asked, tone slightly deeper than usual due to the cigarettes he'd been chain smoking since we came home.
I hesitated, since I was still not fully sure I wanted to know the answer. That I had spooked him with my injury earlier that night I was sure, never before had I seen his hands tremble the way they had when he had turned back to me, not knowing where or how badly I had been shot by that atrocious fiend Killer Evans. But what he had said, surely he couldn't have been in earnest. Holmes is the very model of control and he is also highly moral, even if some people might doubt this due to my friend's sometimes controversial methods. He would not commit a hanging offence in a heat of emotion. The thought was preposterous. However, Sherlock Holmes is not a man who speaks without meaning either. I had to know, even if only to sate my own curiosity.
"If I had been more seriously injured by Evans, surely you would not have followed through on your threat?" I said finally.
A darkness seemed to descend on Holmes's features. He turned to look up at the ceiling once more, taking a long draft from his fag. He exhaled thoughtfully, looking very grim indeed. Some minutes passed in silence and I was beginning to think my query would remain unanswered when he suddenly spoke.
"If you had died this evening, Watson, I would have shot the man with his own pistol. I would have shot him in the lung, so that he would have drowned in his own blood. That is what I would have done if he had robbed me of you. I do apologize if this disturbs your doubtlessly despairingly romantic image of me as the knight of justice, but it is nonetheless true."
Holmes threw his cigarette out through the open window in a sudden fit of temper, his face contorted in anger but still he did not look at me. He stared at the window as if it had done him some personal harm.
"Why you should be surprised by this fact, I do not understand," he snarled. "You constantly underestimate your own value, Doctor. Sometimes I wonder if you really are as obtuse as you depict yourself in those ghastly scribbles of yours. I don't keep you around because I feel the need to humour you, rest assured I have enough money of my own at this point to live in far better quarters on my own. I have known you for more than twenty-one years now! Even a 'heartless automaton' as myself cannot help but form some sort of affection for a fellow who's been able to endure my admittedly sometimes quite acidic company for that long. So yes, I would have shot him. And gladly, too."
Holmes, who had worked himself into such a frenzy that he had risen long ago and had started pacing the sitting room, now came to a halt and seemed to deflate slightly, visibly reeling himself in. His eyes came to rest upon mine, finally, and I had not the faintest idea of what to say to him. I am a man of words, but I am also, conveniently, a man of action. I raised my hand and gestured him forward, I would have walked over to him myself if not my damned leg was currently preventing me. He strode forward and when he was close enough I took hold of his hand, pulled him forward and caught him in what could only be described as a hug.
Holmes stiffened, physical affection between us was rare since my friend was never comfortable with uncalled for sentimentality, but he did not pull away or try to free himself. I despaired slightly over his too bony structure but decided to worry about it some other day, at the moment just relishing the rare closeness we were sharing.
"Watson?" Holmes said after a while as the embrace grew longer than necessary.
I bit my lip not to laugh, but my merriment was doubtlessly obvious when I answered him.
"I am hugging you, be quiet."
A few moments of silence, then Holmes disrupted it again, this time with a tad bit more impatience inn his tone.
"Is this going to take long? I have some files that needs sorting."
I couldn't hold it in any longer and I started giggling uncontrollably. Holmes soon followed, and we laughed until we had no more air in our lungs and our faces were bright red. I gasped for air, holding on to my armchair so not to fall off, Holmes on the floor beside me, still huffing into the carpet with occasional bursts of merriment. It was quite endearing to witness.
"We are quite mad, aren't we?" I said breathlessly at last, wiping away tears of laughter from my eyes. Holmes turned, lying on his back and smiling up at me.
Much better, I thought fondly.
"Quite unforgivably mad, my dear, dear, Watson," he said and surprisingly took my hand in his.
"But alive, and very happy."