-Holmes-
I did not understand Watson's silence on the matter, which made me even more certain that some deeper hurt had been done to him during my death. I knew from my brother's quick correspondence that nearly sent me back to England that Watson had almost been sent to an asylum when he believed, during a mystery a friend had asked him to solve, that I was with him, but he had recovered, only to realize his wife was dying and nothing he or medicine could do would stop it.
I hated that I couldn't be there for him at that time of such grief, that I only found out later! I was certain at times, and my imagination sadly added fuel to the fire, that had I waited much longer to return he would surely have been even more in a state of illness then he is now. These notes, the damnable things, only hurt him more when he should be healing!
I pushed down my anger by once more going over what I had found. The person mentioned had been a friend to Watson while he was recovering in India, and had died a few weeks after we started rooming together, and right before the Jefferson Hope case. I recall the time and remembered seeing him much saddened, and the impulsive idea that perhaps, inviting him along after showing off what I did would actually help him a little. As it had, and seemed to if that one case during the early part of his marriage showed anything, then it seemed I had helped him recover and for that I was quite happy. That I had caused him such pain in three years I have yet to forgive myself for, even as I repeat that mantra that had he known the truth his life would have been forfeit to the old shikari and the remains of Moriarty's group.
The paper was unimpressive but I was able to figure out where it came from, and despite not having a chance to tell Watson of that one string, I was able to ask Mrs. Hudson enough to learn that she was certain a man brought it. I thanked her and went back upstairs, frowning as I saw that Watson had retired without dinner. I realized how dangerous this was for him, as I had gotten Mycroft to look after him and asked for news often, and had only learned that Watson was not doing 'well' with my absence. 'Well', it seemed, meant taking up my habit of missing meals when a problem arose, though this wasn't something he was really attempting to figure out. I think perhaps that was what had caused me to look into it so much, even despite the latest threatening note. I had never had to deal with an actual threat to Watson, and found myself feeling both afraid for what might happen to him as well as feeling angry over whoever would actually attempt to hurt him. The idea of him being hurt, in any way, by some outside source and for some purpose, made my blood boil and my mind conjure up terrors that I could later inflict upon the man.
I sat alone, thinking. Somehow this man had some intimate knowledge, or believed they had such knowledge, of Watson's relation with this man, had it gone beyond friendship to deviance. For whatever reason they believed that these notes would somehow harm Watson all the more and force him into something or other, perhaps force him to worry himself to death. I could see how such a thing would affect him more without his wife or I to help, and made a mental note to one day thank Lestrade for being Watson's friend in those years.
I reread both notes I had in my possession, though apparently there had been more and I would like to have read them. One simply stated that he should be ashamed of himself for attaching such a 'filthy' soul upon another that had no need for it, or most certainly would throw him out if 'he ever found out the full story'. I wondered briefly what this story was, and knew it had to do with India and Watson's recovery. I also believed it was the fact that Watson, when he loved, even for friendship, could give himself so fully to a person and without reservation that he was often hard-pressed upon finding a fault in them. I should know this, having been on the receiving end of many of his lectures due to my health or my habits. If he attached himself to a young man there and such attachment had been returned, perhaps someone mistook it for deviancy. I had heard a few rumors about what we two had done together, and wondered briefly if it was because of Watson's stories and how they showed his devotion to me.
Of course, Watson had been married and I would've thought that could dispel something, as he loved his wife as much as he loved me, and indeed, I don't doubt that had it come to a contest between the two of us, he would have broken over the strain to please us both.
The second obviously said he was observed, and I had found out from Mrs. Hudson that there had been at least two shady characters on the street, and with both descriptions I could easily find out in the morning if either had come in to get the paper from the supplier. I considered also speaking to Lestrade about the matter, as well as about putting someone near Baker Street, in case the letters took a turn for the worse, or in case Watson's life—
I stopped the thought once more, unhappy with the course it was taking. I would ensure that Watson was safe. It was the only thing I could do, and there were few ways I could fail.
I wouldn't fail. I would keep Watson safe, and make up for three years of heartache and pain I had caused him.
The morning came quickly, as this had quickly turned into a problem requiring pacing and more then three pipes. I had been silent enough that I heard Watson's disturbed sleep and his own pacing above before he fell asleep again, and a quick look around the sitting room said that he had taken up his medical bag with him. I hoped he wouldn't sleep in too far, and I also hoped for no new note with breakfast, as he had enough on his mind already.
I rang for breakfast, despite my own diminished appetite, and then looked through the morning post as Watson came down, later then usual again, and looking for all the world as if he had not gotten any sleep, though I knew he must have taken something.
I waited as he ate silently before asking him simply, "Who was Charles Harrison?"
He stiffened at the question, pouring himself another cup of coffee and downing it before saying, "A fellow patient. He went back to another unit shortly after I was discharged and scheduled to leave. After I got over the fever, he and I began talking, and became friends. He tried to stay in touch, but the last note I got was a report of his death, shortly after I had moved here."
"Watson," I muttered, glancing at him, "I cannot help you if you lie to me so."
He looked down and away, finding the wallpaper next to him, the ceiling, the fire, the floor, far more interesting to look at, avoiding my gaze.
"Watson."
"He was my friend," Watson repeated, his voice monotone and without the usual emotion I had come to suspect from him, "and helped me while I was starting to recover…"
"John."
He froze, as I had never used his Christian name and perhaps the calm, soft tone that had often caused those clients lying to me to speak the truth. That I now had to use it on him…I wished he would tell me the truth, what I already believed.
Watson was shaking now, I could see the fine vibrations along his skin and that he'd taken on a paler tone then I liked. "Please, Holmes, he was simply a friend."
I took in a breath. I wanted nothing more then to be as kind to Watson as I could, but…"I believe he was, as people have called them, a deviant. He, starting as a friend, began to care for you. You…" I paused, Watson looking down and I continued, "left, perhaps before he could say anything to you about it, fearing that you might not return such feelings. Instead, he must have written, perhaps to a friend or relative, and described you within it, as well as his…unnatural…love for you. The person either feels sympathy for him, or believes that your presence led him into deviancy. He learns where you live, but also that you live with me, a detective that could catch him and then stop it, or prove him wrong. He doesn't wish that, and upon learning of my death, as well as your loss of a wife, believes you might turn others, or perhaps that you need to be reminded of the man who wished to be with you and never got a chance to. Thus he sent notes, saying he knew the secret, thinking it was yours as well as Harrison's. Despite the fact that I had returned, he now was more courageous, believing that stating he would speak to me about Harrison would end our friendship. That he does not ask for money or anything says he seems to be watching his torment of you and enjoying it. That he knows I am investigating and now threatens more directly is showing his fear." I watched Watson this whole time, his face showing grief and self-loathing as I spoke, wondering briefly if what I said was the truth or not. Was it only one-sided, or perhaps…?
"Watson," I spoke as he remained silent, "I do not wish you to go anywhere without me or someone else. They will try to take you, and harm you. I will not let them do that. I do not wish anything more to happen that causes you pain."
He looked up and finally graced me with a smile. "Thank you, Holmes. I'm sorry, but…" he paused again, looking off. "It's nothing. I'm just worried, and wish I'd never seen those damned notes!"
I walked over and put a hand on his shoulder, grateful that his shaking had subsided. "I will find them, and they will stop. I promise you that."
