A/N: Full credit for bringing this poem to my attention goes to bluedragon1836. That usage of this poem is probably way better, but I just couldn't resist the urge to take a shot at it.
Inspirational credit goes to the Lemon Zinger! *hugs* 'Bee' cause you're so awesome! This one's for you.
Will you be my friend?
There are so many reasons why you never should:
I'm sometimes sullen, often shy, acutely sensitive,
My fear erupts as anger, I find it hard to give,
I talk about myself when I'm afraid
And often spend a day without anything to say.
.
Holmes eyed the man sitting in the fireside chair across from him. In the twelve months they had been sharing these rooms, Holmes had not only displayed but outright flaunted his countless shortcomings for the man. And, yet, here he sat, quietly enjoying the evening with a pipe and a fire to ward off the chill that made his wounds ache; though he would never voice a complaint. In anyone else, Holmes would have found the man's tolerance a sign of complacency or weakness. But not with this one. Though, for the life of him, Holmes could not fathom why.
The man was a puzzle that stirred his thoughts in a muddle. He had declared himself a friend. So, of course, Holmes had to do everything within his power to convince the man of the idiocy of such an idea. And, as their original one-year flatmate agreement would be ending on the morrow, Holmes found himself amazed the man had given no indication of stirring from these rooms. It wasn't that he wanted Dr. Watson to leave. But he had become convinced so many years ago that friendship had no part in his life.
So why did he now dare to hope they were more than just flatmates?
A friend
Who far beyond the feebleness of any vow or tie
Will touch the secret place where I am really I,
To know the pain of lips that plead and eyes that weep,
Who will not run away when you find me in the street
Alone and lying mangled by my quota of defeats
But will stop and stay - to tell me of another day
.
Watson, for all his talent with the written word, could not find an adequate description for his day. First had been the lingering depression from the recent loss of his last living family member that had greeted him upon waking. Shortly this was followed by one of Holmes' displays of his less than patient nature with his blind dullard of a flatmate. In a fit of temper Watson had stormed out of the house and into the cold, wet day to start his rounds. His first case of the day a dying child that left his soul aching for the remaining family members. This followed by the victims of a house fire he treated in a hospital with even less hope of survival. Then, the weather had turned from rain to an icy slush that clung to him while he walked for endless blocks in search of a cab. Having finally found a cab, he turned his minds toward the comforts of home and a fire. Even these pleasant dreams turned out to be nothing more than that—empty dreams—when the cab swerved on the icy streets to dump both himself and the driver onto the sidewalk.
Only blocks from his home on Baker Street, he saw to the injured driver and horse before attempting to resume his walk. Until then, he had not noticed the stabbing pain lancing from his ankle to his knee. Beyond even his limits of frustration, Watson leaned against the wall taking the pressure off his injured ankle as he tried to find the energy and ambition to push himself toward home. A mental image of Holmes' foul mood still lingering in the sitting room from that morning almost made him give up right there. For several minutes he let the chill night air and damp icy slush soak into him as if desperately wishing it could numb what he felt as easily as it did his body.
A gentle hand landed on his shoulder stirred him from these thoughts. The gray eyes that met his own questing ones were filled with something warm that words could not express. There was no pity behind those eyes, but something more akin to concern and empathy. Obviously, Holmes had already taken in every minute of Watson's day based on whatever those keen eyes had already seen. Instead of turning away expecting him to follow, Holmes took the bag from his hands and wrapped his other arm around his friend's waist to take the pressure off the injured ankle.
"Thank you, Holmes."
Holmes huffed something as if verbally waving off the thanks. An hour later as Watson warmed his aching body and wrapped ankle beside the warmth of the fire in the sitting room, Holmes warmed his soul in another way. He felt the miserable failures of the day fading by the minute. The violin sang of better times and warmer places as Watson closed his eyes and absorbed all the things that violin said that Holmes either would not or could not say.
Will you be my friend?
There are so many reasons why you never should:
Often I'm too serious, seldom predictably the same,
Sometimes cold and distant, probably I'll always change.
I bluster and brag, seek attention like a child.
I brood and pout, my anger can be wild,
.
"Holmes!"
The bellow that rose up the stairwell alerted the current, lone tenant of 221B Baker Street that his former flatmate had returned. The thumping of those slightly limping steps ascending the stairs left no doubts in his mind the level of anger with which he was about to be confronted. As expected, Watson opened the door to the sitting room all but snarling. Spying the source and target of this anger, he stormed over to the settee quivering with undisguised fury. Holmes didn't bother to stir, as he really could care less. His cold, distant gray eyes stared challengingly as he cocked an amused eyebrow up at his former flatmate...likely former friend, now.
"How dare you! I have tolerated your abuse and your antics all these years with little complaint. But I will not allow you to inflict such on my patients!"
Holmes continued to stare, unmoved. For one, brief moment, he wondered if one of those clenched fists would soon be met with his face. At least with a concussion he stood the chance of getting some undisturbed sleep. Suddenly those green eyes blazing down on him softened. In a single huff, all the anger drained from Watson to be converted into concern and scrutiny.
"You're hurt."
"You refused to see me."
A flash of anger returned to those eyes as all the little pieces came together. Occupied as he was with his life as a married man with a pregnant wife and a doctor with a practice, he had paid little enough attention to Holmes' activities of late. On more than one occasion the detective had tried to get his attention in roundabout ways that made little sense and were typically more than irritating. Today's display in the sitting room outside of his consulting room had been an outrageous display of his talents designed to drive off those patients that stood between himself and his friend. Silently cursing Holmes' inability to simply ask for help when needed, Watson retrieved his medical bag from the foyer.
"Next time, tell me," Watson hissed, softening the blow with a bemused shake of his head. "You should know well enough by now that when you need me, I will clear my patient list myself, dear friend."
As Watson prodded the oozing, infected knife wound just under Holmes' left arm across his protruding ribs, he hissed painfully. Through clenched teeth he replied, "But it would not be quite so entertaining."
Even Watson had to chuckle his agreement. Despite Holmes' verbal assaults and the mar it would leave on his professional standing as a doctor, today's display had been both entertaining and useful. He had done Watson something of a favor in ridding him of the terrible nuisance of at least a couple of hypochondriac patients that needed telling off; and they both knew it.
"That does not excuse your behavior, Holmes."
"I know," Holmes replied in a voice laced with weariness. "Thank you."
Watson huffed something under his breath about his friend's gratitude that sounded less than complimentary as he finished laying out the necessary items. Only then did Holmes realize that the test of his friend's forgiveness might not have been such a good idea just before letting the man tend an already painful wound. But, he knew his Watson better than that. As expected, the man produced a needle that had him sliding into sweet oblivion minutes later.
A friend
Who, when I fear your closeness, feels me push away
.
Watson paced up and down his sitting room in the lonely house he once thought of as home. Now, all that filled these empty walls were ghosts and memories. The memories of the days spent grieving for the death of a man he thought his brother. The passing of his wife and children within these very walls. The loss of faith in himself and his profession. So many things haunted those green eyes and restless footsteps. Sleep did not come easily, when it came at all.
It had been less than a week since Holmes had miraculously returned from the dead. The resultant explosion of hurt feelings and anger after the closure of the case had obviously been too much. Holmes had done his utmost to apologize, but Watson could not bear it. He could not bear the idea of opening himself up to that kind of pain ever again. Coward that he was, he just could not bring himself to pick up the pieces of their broken friendship.
Despite the ridiculously early hours just before sunrise, these thoughts and ghosts chased him out of the house as he gathered his jacket and walking stick.
.
.
And stubbornly will stay to share what's left on such a day,
.
Holmes crept up on the silent figure standing alone in the cemetery on such a chilly, though beautiful morning. He had respected Watson's wishes and given him room to adjust to his return. But that did not mean he would leave his friend to do so alone. Despite the hurtful words the man had hurled at him that first morning, he still considered Watson his friend—whether these feelings were reciprocated or not no longer mattered to him.
From a respectful distance, Holmes took in those shoulders bowed with grief and loss. His friend was much diminished physically, but far more so spiritually. He resembled much more the broken man that had first become his friend all those years ago than the one he'd left behind at Reichenbach Falls. He could only hope his dear friend would recover again, in time. Even if he did not, Holmes would not abandon him ever again.
.
.
Who, when no one knows my name or calls me on the phone,
.
Rubbing his eyes for the dozenth time in an effort to get them to focus on the papers covered in his writing, Watson finally sat back with a weary sigh. He had no idea what time it was anymore, only that the day had been long and tiring. His practice had closed hours ago, and he'd found himself sitting alone and—he had to admit to himself—more lonely than he could remember. The inexorable creeping of age through his mind and body only further stimulated these feelings.
Sitting here in his little office working on this latest manuscript had him wishing for Holmes' company more than ever. He glared at the phone sitting silently on his desk as if demanding it to ring and Holmes be on the other end. When it remained silent, he was again left to his thoughts.
.
.
When there's no concern for me - what I have or haven't done –
.
Tucked away in his little cottage, Holmes sat in his fireside chair glaring at the phone on the table nearby. He silently demanded it ring and produce the only voice he'd ever wanted to hear. All these years after retiring, he still desired Watson's presence to fill this cold and lonely nights. The comfort of anonymity here in this remote place had lost its appeal some time ago. He kept this place more in the hopes that Watson would one day join him for his own health and well-being. He disliked seeing the busier life of London wearing his friend down so thoroughly; even if only from a distance.
Here no one cared if he was a great detective. So why would they care that his friend was a great writer and doctor?
When the phone refused to ring, Holmes turned his mental energies toward further plans to tempt his former flatmate and dearest friend into retirement.
.
.
And those I've helped and counted on have, oh so deftly, run,
.
Perhaps Holmes had the right idea. As alone as he was in this city of millions of people, he found it hard to believe he still had a place here. Watson could no longer remember why it was he had decided to stay here in London. The world he had known was fading more quickly by the day. The days of the great detective and his partner were nearly gone now, in the events that were reshaping the world around him. Reaching for the phone, he made up his mind.
.
.
Who, when there's nothing left but me, stripped of charm and subtlety,
.
Holmes started, nearly jumping out of his chair as the ringing of the phone at this ridiculously late hour interrupted his plotting. With a fond smile he answered.
"Ah, my dear, Watson. Have the crude changes of our beloved city finally driven you back to the lesser charms of my presence?"
The warming comfort of that familiar chuckle on the other end of the line was all the answer he needed.
"I shall have your room ready tomorrow. Would you care for some assistance in the sale of your practice?" Holmes offered, praying this time the stubborn doctor would not turn down the offer.
"Holmes..."
"Yes, dear friend?"
"Thank you."
.
.
Will nonetheless remain.
.
"There! You see, Watson?"
As they sat sipping their tea watching the setting of the sun that late summer evening, Watson had almost begun to doze off in his chair. The sound of Holmes' voice so very close almost startled him as he had been half-dreaming of the days of adventure so far behind them. Rousing himself slightly, he again glanced at the sky painted in countless shades of pink and purple.
"Hm?"
"Retirement shared is not so very bad, afterall?"
With a fond smile, Watson shook his head. "No, dear friend, not at all."
.
.
Will you be my friend?
For no reason that I know
Except I want you so.